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By Prof. C. P. BRONSON, A.M., M. D. 


Edited by LAURA M. BRONSON. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 


In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at "Washington, D. C. 





The veteran and well-known elocutionist, Professor Bronson, 
left at his death a large quantity of manuscript, embracing matter 
on all the principles involved in voice-culture, reading, and speak- 
ing. It was found, upon examination, that much condensation 
and arrangement of these papers were necessary. This has been 
a labor requiring time, care, and experience. The result is now 
before the public. 

The pieces selected for readings, with the emphatic words 
and rhetorical pauses indicated, are culled from a large quantity 
thus prepared by him. Any person who attempts to describe 
accurately an action or vibratory movement of body or limb, in 
writing, will, realize to a small extent the difficulty an author 
experiences in attempting to convey on paper, in a comprehensible 
manner, an idea of the tones of the human voice — its force, its 
melody, its multiplicity of shades and intonations. It is some- 
thing like an attempt to cage the wind. As the dancing-master 
can show by one movement of his foot what he could not fully 
explain in a dozen pages of a treatise, so the elocutionist in a few 
spoken words, or waves of voice, can elucidate a principle which 
many pages of printed matter could not make clear to the mind 
of his pupil. 

And yet the necessity for the treatise remains — a Manual of 
Principles is demanded as a text-book for both teacher and pupil. 



To meet in some degree this demand these essays and principles 
are given to the public, with the natural wish of any one who 
takes charge of a work of this character that, instead of being a 
mute, it had a voice and could speak. 

However irrelevant may appear to the novitiate some of the 
things suggested in this book as useful for practice, he may be 
assured that the experience of the author during almost a life- 
time of teaching has found them not only necessary, but fruitful 
of good results; and nothing but what has been proved to be 
altogether essential has found place in this work. 


Reading — Breath — Speech — Air — Manner of Breathing 11 


Laughing — Breath and Voice-sounds — Practice for expulsion of 
Breath — Sighing 14 


The Philosophy of Vocalization — The Larynx — The Voice — Speech — 
Language — The Alphabet — Three distinct Classes of Letters. ..18 


The Vowels — The English Alphabet — Vowels and Aspirates — Vibra- 
tions of Atmosphere in Speaking and Singing — Vowel-sounds the 
motive power of speech 23 


Vocal Gymnastics — Exercises in Accent and Emphasis — Sounds of the 
Letter A 26 


Vocal Gymnastics, continued — Sounds of E; Sounds of I; Sounds of O; 
Sounds of U— Quantity and Quality 31 


Pitch of the Voice — Diatonic Scale — Scale or Ladder for the 
Voice .35 


Elements of Speech — Exercises in Articulation — Table of Aspirates — 
Aspirates and Subvowels — Table of Subvowels 40 


Aspirates — Manner of forming Aspirates — Sounds of C; F; H; P; Q; 
S; Z; K; T. 43 




Aspirates, continued — B; D; G; J; L; M; N; R; V; W; X— Digraphs: 
c/t, sh, gh, ph, th, ivh 48 


Articulation — Gymnastics of the Voice — Exercises for Running the 
Gauntlet — The "Leader" Exercise 52 

Accent — Inflection — Emphasis — Cadence 57 


The Circumflex, or "Wave — Emphasis — Stress and Quantity — Rhetor- 
ical Pauses 66 

Climax — Deep Breathing — Air — Stammering 81 


Pitch — The Orotund Voice — The Falsetto — The Conversational 
Voice — The Grave Voice — The Tremolo — The Whisper — Various 
Movements of Voice 93 


Modulation — Delivery — Examples in various Styles: Tenderness; 
Rapid, Light, and Brilliant; Awful; Threatening; Revenge; 
Scorn; Disgust and Contempt; Sarcasm; Remorse and Humilia- 
tion; Contrition and Doubt; Fear; Love; Sorrow and Grief; 
Horror and Agony 102 


Exercise in Rapid and Parenthetical Movements of Voice — Echo — 
How to give Imitations — Examples 122 


The Reverential Style — True Emphasis — Name of the Deity — 
Exercises 152 


Gesture and Deportment — Arbitrary Rules — Pantomime— Necessity 
of Gesture — Faults of Orators — Grace and Dignity — Study of 
the Passions— Observations of Nature — Selections 173 



Belial's Speech against the War with Heaven... Milton 113 

Ship on Fire 115 

Mother and Poet Mrs. Browning 116 

The Rum Maniac Allison 118 

Soliloquy of the Dying Alchemist N. P. Willis 119 

"No".., Eliza Cook 124 

The Red Hunters, or Prairie on Fire M. V. Fuller 126 

Bugle Song Tennyson 127 

The Long Expected: True Love Never Lost.... Massey 128 

Love, or How I won my Genevieve Coleridge 130 

Edward Gray Tennyson 132 

Address to the Ocean Byron 133 

The Ocean... Fanny Green 135 

The Alps Willis Gaylord Clark 135 

The Celestial Army T. Buchanan Read 136 

TheTJrsa Major H. Ware, Jr 137 

Paradise and the Peri Moore 140 

Battle of Bunker Hill F. S. Cozzens 143 

Ode to Eloquence 145 

The Marseilles Hymn De L'Isle 147 

Columbia Timothy Divight 148 

Herve Riel Robert Browning 149 

Sennacherib's Ruin Isaiah xxxvi, xxxvii 155 

Paul at Cesarea Acts xxv 156 

Paul before Agrippa Acts xxvi 157 

Destruction of Sennacherib Byron 159 

The Constancy of the Jews in Captivity Psalm cxxxvii 159 

Confidence in God's Care Psalm xxiil 160 

God's Dominion in the World '. Psalm xxiv 160 

Christmas Carol E. H. Sears 160 

An Exhortation to Praise God Psalm xcviii 161 

The Lord's Resurrection 162 

Creation Proves the Existence of God L. M. Double 162 

The Living Waters 163 

The Morning Dawns 163 

The Heavenly Canaan Watts 164 

Tell me, ye Winged Winds Charles Mackay 164 

The Excellence of God's Law Psalm xix 165 

My Psalm John G. Whittier 166 

Confidence in God's Protection Psalm xxvii 167 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 168 

Christ in the Tempest John G. Whittier 168 

"Still with Thee" Mrs. H. B. Stowe 169 

Who by searching can find out God? E. Scudder 170 

The Leper N. P. Willis 170 


Immortality of the Soul Addison 172 

Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 176 

Hamlet's Advice to the Players Shakespeare .... 178 

Moonbeams 17g 

Fairy Bells and Bridges 179 

The Human Brain 180 

The Katydid 0. W. Holmes 181 

Beauty Dr. Charming 182 

Morning in Spring Geo. D. Prentice 183 

Lochiel's Warning Campbell 184 

The Prisoner of Chillon Byron 186 

Music ICO 

Music of the Ocean 191 

Music of the Night J. Neal 192 

Vocal Music 193 

The Music of Childhood Jean Ingelow 193 

A Lady Singing Parsons 193 

Music of the Universe Frances S. Osgood 194 

Peter Pickle's Picture, with Gold Frame Planche 194 

Press On! 196 

The Big Shoe Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 197 

Clandestine Interviews Dickens 199 

Tempest Dickens 207 

The Announcement of Steerforth's Death Dickens 215 

A Singular Coincidence Dickens 218 

Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell Dickens 220 

Marco Bozzaris Halleck 223 

Poems Unwritten Mary H. C. Booth 22-5 

The Angel Post 225 

The Pauper's Death-bed Mrs. Southey 226 

A Slight Mistake 226 

Our Field 228 

Profanity E. H. Chapin 228 

The Kose 228 

The Baboon at Home 231 

William Pitt Macaulay 232 

Warwick Castle H W. Beecher 233 

A Sabbath at Stratford-on-Avon 235 

The French Assembly of 1792 Macaulay 236 

Defeat of the Spanish Armada J. Lpthrop Motley 237 

The Golden City Mackay 240 

The Wing Michelet 242 

The Thunder-storm Geo. D. Prentice 245 

Cardinal Wolse} r 's Soliloquy Shakespeare 247 

Othello's Apology Shakespeare 250 

Clarence's Dream Shakespeare 253 

Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare 255 

Hamlet and his Mother Shakespeare 259 

Lear and his Daughters Shakespeare 262 


Lady Macbeth and her Husband Shakespeare 273 

King Henry VIII Shakespeare 280 

Queen Katharine on Trial Shakespeare 283 

The Arab's Farewell to his Steed Mrs. Norton 286 

Song of the World — Money-making Massey 288 

My Beloved is all the World to me Massey 290 

God's World is worth Better Men Massey 291 

The Four Eras of Human Life Rogers 292 

Loch Katrine Walter Scott 292 

Kevenge: Foscari, the Doge of Venice Rogers 293 

The Brides of Venice Rogers ...298 

Dying Gladiator Byron 301 

The Alps at Daybreak..... Rogers 302 

Lament of the Peri for Hinda Moore 302 

Home Scenes in my Native Vale Rogers 303 

The Shipwreck Byron 304 

Origin of Feelings, Thoughts, and Acts 305 

The Lust of Power Pollok 305 

Fowls of the Air and Lilies of the Field 307 

Progress of Life from Infancy to Old Age 307 

Hail to the Gentle Bride Mitford. 308 

The Last Minstrel Walter Scott 308 

The Roman Soldier Atherstone 311 

A Winter Sketch and Domestic Scenes Hoyt 313 

Soul-longing: its Meaning and Results Lowell 315 

To Give is to Live 315 

Our Wee White Rose Massey 316 

Blessings on Children Simms 317 

True Love binds Soul and Body 319 

The Various Roads to Fame Pollok 319 

Earthly Reputation Pollok 320 

The Old Clock on the Stairs Longfellow 321 

Earthly Ambition Vain Pollok 322 

Interview between Youth and Sorrow Mackay 323 

Forgive and Forget Tupper 324 

The Grave of Franklin Waterman 325 

To-day and To-morrow Massey 326 

Wooed and Won: The Bliss of Life Massey 327 

Pictures Hanging on Memory's Wall Carey 329 

The Last Leaf, or the Old Man Holmes 329 

The Christian Ruler Pollok 330 



Reading — Breath — Speech — Air — Manner of Breathing. 

The elements and principles of reading and speaking have been 
arranged in essays, for reading-lessons ; so that they can not by any 
possibility be overlooked or neglected by either teacher or pupil. 
They constitute the important part of the work, and are not placed 
here simply to fill a book. 

The want of a knowledge of these principles is very obvious. It 
is difficult to find the public speaker or elocutionist who does not 
exhibit a lack of proper training in articulation and pronunciation, 
to say nothing of the higher and more elegant graces of the art of 
delivery. By the unprofessional, particularly the youths of our land, 
the sounds of letters are things not taken into consideration. But if 
teachers and parents are ignorant, we should not chastise the children. 

One of the most eifective sounds of our language is almost entirely 
ignored by a large class of persons — the r; and we could spare almost 
any other subvowel better; for, when properly enunciated, it gives 
dignity to the language — when neglected, the result is weakness and 

We therefore make the Elements of Speech the prominent feature 
of this work. 

To become a good reader involves certain conditions which must 
be complied with or excellence can not be achieved in this art. 

The first condition is to have developed a clear, round, smooth 
voice; the second is a perfect control of the vocal organs, com- 
prising a distinct articulation of all the elements of sound as expressed 
by the letters of our alphabet; third, perfect self-possession. "No 
man can serve two masters." If fear or distrust of our powers has 
the control, art can not be represented. 



"And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and 
breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a 
living soul." How wonderful is breath! this simple motion of air; 
this mysterious, active agent, invisibly, silently vitalizing and animating 
nature — pulsations cease or beat — life comes or goes on its wings. With 
it are woven the sweet words of affection and the melodies of song. 

When our hearts are stirred with responsive sympathies, these gush 
forth in accents of speech, coined in tender phrases, borne from 
lip to ear, from soul to soul, by this gentle messenger, this slender 
stream of air, called breath. Let us reverence it — let it come to us 
freely, fully, joyfully. Yet it is nothing but air — air that is common 
every-where. It plays wantonly with the mighty monarchs of the 
forest, kissing and swaying their branches with rough caress, till they 
reel and laugh with hoarse mutterings of delight. Again, swollen to 
the fierce hurricane, it makes fearful music of their crashing limbs 
and snapping trunks. 

It comes to us in the soft summer morning laden with the perfume 
of flowers ; but ere it reaches us it has kissed a thousand scented leaves. 
The birds soar aloft in this mysterious ether, pouring their triumphal 
songs on its resonant bosom; and the butterfly and buzzing insect, 
"like winged flowers and flying gems," sparkle and shimmer in their 
dazzling beauty. 

But whether it brings upon its waves the mutterings of the coming 
storm, or the merry, ringing laugh of childhood — the awful booming 
of the heavy cannonade, or the silvery tones of the violin — it is air, 
such as we breathe. Oh ! then let it become a thing of joy to us — this 
great motive power, charging with ceaseless activities the complicated 
machinery of our bodies. Let us learn to make it a thing of beauty, 
wreathing embodied thoughts in vocal gems of purity and sweetness 
that shall gladden the ears of all who listen. 

Breathing, — breathing sweet and strong, 
Breathing, — breathing deep and long, 
Breathing full, and breathing fair, 
Breathing naught but purest air. 

Speech is vocalized breath. If the pupil has not learned to breathe 
naturally, or through bad habits has lost the proper control of the 
organs, the first effort must be to restore a normal process of breathing. 
No clear, musical sound can be given unless the muscles of the chest 
and vocal organs are strong by the exercise of natural breathing. A 
feeble or imperfect voice is always disagreeable and sometimes painful 
to the hearer. 


Air, of which breath is made, should be inhaled through the nose. 
Be it distinctly understood that this is the appropriate organ to receive, 
warm, and filter the air of impurities, adapting it to the use of the 
lungs. The nose is suitably lined with a material that catches the 
minutest particles of dust and all irritating substances, preventing 
them from reaching the air-passages and lungs. The mouth is not 
thus prepared, because it has other specific purposes and uses. One 
of these is to keep the vocal organs moist and soft for the act of talk- 
ing. The air, unfiltered, as received through this channel, deposits 
its impurities in the saliva, drying it, and causing a stiffness of the 
membranes, producing inflexibility of muscle and consequent huski- 
ness of voice. It visits the lungs cold and unclean, forcing the delicate 
cells to receive it unprepared for their use, thus effectually sowing 
seeds for all throat and lung affections. Avoid breathing through the 
mouth if you desire health and a sweet, smooth-toned vocality. 

Another reason why the air should be received through the nose 
is that by this effort a natural motion of the muscles of the abdomen 
is produced, allowing them to vibrate with ease; whereas breathing 
through the mouth incites a gasping effort, producing an expansion 
of the upper part of the lungs only, causing an unnatural elevation 
of the shoulders, leaving the lower part of the lungs unexpanded, 
and consequently unvitalized with air. 

Stand erect, resting the weight of the body gracefully on the left 
foot; throw the shoulders and head back, not strainedly, but with 
sufficient .dignity to allow the diaphragm ease of action ; place the 
hands upon the hips, with the fingers pressing upon the abdomen, 
the thumbs extending backward, and with the mouth shut breathe 
through the nose, forcing the breath down until the motion can be 
distinctly felt under the fingers. Let this practice be repeated until 
this long, full breathing becomes a habit. 

When we are sitting at ease, and not using the voice, our breathing 
is slow and regular; but the more we exercise, speak, or sing, the 
greater the expenditure of breath, and consequently the more fre- 
quently we must inhale fresh air. Many persons fall victims to a 
neglect of this practice ; and little there is in the present method of 
primary instruction in reading, in our schools, calculated to give any 
aid to proper breathing. Indeed, it is not considered as having any 
part in making good readers and speakers ; the results of which are 
many exceedingly bad habits and unvitalized bodies. 

We shall treat more fully of this subject when we come to Em- 
phasis, Rhetorical expression, and the Music of the voice. 



Laughing — Breath and Voice-sounds — Practice for expulsion of 
Breath — Sighing. 

The effort of laughing is a valuable gymnastic exercise, and when 
moderately indulged in strengthens the vocal muscles, and much facil- 
itates a healthy circulation of the blood, a good flow of genial spirits, 
and a happy disposition. 

A good, round, full, hearty Ha — ha — hah is a delightful expulsion 
of sound, a stout enemy to the "blue devils," and a far better remedy 
for dyspepsia than Graham-bread and tepid milk and water, with the 
condiment of woeful countenance. So, we will commence on the 
lowest line, right heartily, with a 

2. HAH, hah, hah! 

1. HAH, hah, hah! 

But even this must be indulged in with care and moderation at the 
commencement; for the lungs, diaphragm, and abdominal muscles, 
which are obliged to make strenuous exertions in this effort, are in 
most persons very weak. The complete exhaustion of air, consequent 
upon throwing out the breath, and the full, strong inhalation that 
follows, bring into requisition, for contraction and distension, the 
entire capacity of the muscles. Therefore discretion is necessary to 
guard against over-exertion at first. The unfortunate and hurtful 
fashions in clothing, and the various unnatural habits, have produced 
a weakness of these organs in our American youth. But we hope to 
laugh all artificial bandages and customs out of countenance; and 
we even dare to dream that the day will come when a sweet, clear, 
strong, perfectly-attuned voice may be considered one of the personal 

The teacher should require the pupil to make selections from authors, 
or furnish compositions of their own, where laughing is introduced; 
which should be practiced until it becomes easy to give a seemingly 
spontaneous laugh whenever required. 

Although it is an easy matter to laugh when one feels like it, it is 
not so easy to laugh at command. Simply repeating the words ha, ha, 


when the printed letters are seen, is not laughing. It will be well to 
employ the musical scale in this and other exercises, and when con- 
venient practice with the aid of some musical instrument, running up 
and down the scale, giving two or three hearty ha-hahs on each note ; 
but bear in mind this must be done with the laughing explosion, not 
with the singing effort. Then laugh the third, fifth, seventh, and 
back again, gaining all the varieties of exercises possible. 

A sweet, musical laugh is always delightful to the ear, and sun- 
shine and gladness follow in its wake. But we seldom hear it, and 
so seldom do we indulge in this healthful expression of joy or merri- 
ment, when we do lose our gravity sufficiently to give way to it, it 
amounts as a general thing to nothing more than a well-defined titter 
or giggle, which is disgusting in the extreme. While the little events 
of life make up the most of our joys and sorrows, let us cultivate 
those things that make ourselves and those around us happiest, and at 
the same time that will add most to our accomplishments. 

The whispering exercise also must receive a great deal of practice, 
and in such a manner as will produce no unpleasant sensations in the 
throat. The breath must be husbanded with great care, and its 
expulsion be moderate and even, to enable the pupil to acquire the 
power of filling a large hall with a clear, smooth whisper. No fears 
need be entertained that too much attention can be paid to these 
breath-sounds; for it is only by properly regulated inhalations and 
exhalations that we can achieve the best results for the voice. To 
neglect this important first step, and expect to attain excellence, 
would be as futile as to attempt to run before the strength of the 
limbs had been tested by the act of walking. By carefully observing 
in these efforts the various movements of the muscles and the position 
of the organs, we learn what our resources are. 

To make a breath-sound open wide the mouth and breathe out the 
word hah with as long and loud a whisper as can be produced. 

Ha 1 — i 1__ __h 

This breath-sound vocalized is the material out of which all voice- 
sounds are made, both of speech and song. We must conclude, from 
our experience in practicing this sound, that ha, produced by simply 
opening the mouth and breathing it out naturally, is the radical sound 
of language. We can not, with any degree of safety, declare that 
either the aspirate h or the vowel a hold any such position independ- 
ently; for if we utter a sound in breathing without an attempt at 
forming words, it will partake of this aspirate and the vowel a, as 


in ah. Therefore if this is a primitive sound, it is so only by the 
perfect union of the aspirate and vowel. 

Persons laboring under the weight of some great affliction, or 
who are depressed with sorrow, give expression to their feelings by 
sighing the sound hah. Sometimes it is aspirated and sometimes 

If very heavy and drowsy, they yawn and gape out the Ha — ha — 
ha — ha — . If boisterously merry, they laugh with explosive force 
the Ha-hah-hah-hah. And the infuriated wild animal slightly com- 
presses the glottis, and with set teeth trills, in a rough growl, over 
nis tongue tne jLi.£L*~~*~*****^^~^~*^*~**i+~ri. d3««w(w>«wwww»vvww,ii, 

It is important in practicing the prolonged expulsive sounds that 
they be measured by keeping time. "When several persons are prac- 
ticing together they should preserve unity by expelling the sounds on 
the same tone and in the same measure. This can be done in any of 
the usual ways, or by dropping the finger an inch for the first beat, 
another inch for the second beat ; then by raising it one inch for the 
third beat, and another for the fourth one ; occupying a w T hole, half, 
or quarter of a second for each motion, according to intention and 
desired effect. 

First make the breath-sound one measure long ; then condense it 
in a voice-sound for one more measure; then give another measure 
for the breath-sound; closing the last with the voice-sound. The 
time can be prolonged by an additional number of beats, as strength 
and facility in prolongation are gained. 

To acquire the habit of taking the quantity of breath necessary, 
and also to gain the control over the muscles of respiration that will 
allow of making two prolonged aspirate and two voice-sounds with 
one breath, is attended with more difficulty than is supposed. The 
experiment, however, will convince us that hard work and persistent 
efforts will be required. 

It will be well for the pupil to observe this distinction of breath 
and vocal-sounds; for herein lies the secret of successful elocution. 
As before stated, out of the breath-sounds we make all the aspirates 
in our language, and by converting breath into voice-sound we make 
all the vowel and subvow T el-sounds. 

Practicing the expulsion of breath, vocalized or unvocalized, in a 
given length of time is one of the best methods of gaining that 
desired strength, depth, and clearness of tone that makes us masters 
of the voice on all occasions. Therefore we ask that practice be be- 
stowed on this sound of ah until it can be obtained prolonged, clear, 


and strong enough to fill the room. This exercise must be repeated 
many times to enable us to make the sound easily and musically; 
and though we never use these prolonged sounds in conversation, they 
are very essential as vocal gymnastics. It will be readily inferred 
that to the singer and public speaker such exercises are of incalculable 

The sigh, which occurs in some compositions, expressive of great 
grief and despair, when repeated — as, ah, ah, ah — should not be given 
on the same pitch, but with a full expression, in vocalized breath, in 
the minor key, falling a half tone on each ; as, 

ah — 
ah — 

In that exquisite poem by Mrs. Browning, the f< Mother and Poet," 
which is full of broken-hearted grief, this peculiar sighing occurs ; and 
if not properly expressed the poem loses its force. 

"Tell his mother. Ah, ah, 'his,' 'their' mother, — not 'mine.' 
No voice says '■My mother' again to me." . . . 
[Minor) "Ah — ah — ah, when Gaeta's taken, what then? 

When the fair, wicked queen sits no more at her sport, 
Of the fire-balls of death crushing souls out of men? 
When the guns of Cavalli, with final retort, 
Have cut the game short?" 

Sighing is an emotional effort, sometimes expressing simple weari- 
ness, sometimes a lover's passion, but frequently it is the utterance 
of a great grief that does not express itself in words. All of these 
phases should be studied if the pupil desires to give a full and satis- 
factory rendering of the various thoughts and emotions with which the 
broad field of literature is diversified. Much observation and critical 
discrimination must be brought to bear in the practice of elocution. 
Every phase of human feeling should be studied as it expresses itself 
in the trials and experiences of life. We have given some examples 
in ah (or more properly, ha.) We hear this frequently expressed in 
0, oh, ho. Sometimes we call it groaning or moaning. Little thought 
has been given to these audible upheavings of the swelling heart. 
0, oh, is more indicative of personal pain, the anguish of self-remorse; 
while ah, ah, expresses hopeless grief caused by outside affliction. 

"Lady Macbeth — Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of 
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! 

Doctor — What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charged." 



A sigh, when it emanates from the lover's breast, is expressive of 
the sweetest, tenderest sensibility. Moore immortalized this emotional 
breath by making it one of the three offerings which the beautiful and 
sorrowing Peri presented at the gates of Paradise — hoping it was the 
gift most dear to heaven which would gain her entrance within its 
golden portals. She watches the tender devotion of a beautiful maiden, 
who is breathing out her life in one long, loving kiss on the dead lips 
of her affianced husband. 

" 'Sleep,' said the Peri, as softly she stole 

The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, 

As true — as e'er warmed a woman's breast — 

Sleep on, in visions of odor rest, 

In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd 

Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird, 

"Who sings at the last — his own — death — lay; 

And in music — and perfume dies away ! ' 

Thus saying, from her lips she spread 

Unearthly breathings through the place, 

And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed 

Such luster o'er each paly face, 

That like two lovely saints they seemed 

Upon the eve of doomsday taken 

From their dim graves, in odor sleeping; 

"While that benevolent Peri bearrid 

Like their good angel, calmly keeping 

Watch o'er them till their souls would waken." 


The Philosophy of Vocalization — The Larynx — The Voice — Speech — 
Language — The Alphabet — Three distinct Classes or Letters. 

It is not deemed necessary to encumber these pages with engrav- 
ings exhibiting the anatomical construction of the vocal and articu- 
lating organs, while such are already within the reach of any person 
who will take the pains to open any work on physiology. Every body 
possesses in perfection the instrument in which voice-sound is made. 
So wonderful and elaborate is it in construction, so delicate in its 
proportions, that for ages it has both puzzled and stimulated the 
ingenuity of man to construct something that would approximate to 
its tones. 


Physiologists have named this vocal pipe the larynx, which forms 
a portion of the respiratory channel, and is not three inches in length 
perhaps ; and they have given us many elaborate theories to sustain 
their own ideas as to what kind of an instrument the human larynx 
is like. Aristotle and Galen, and the older writers in general, looked 
upon the larynx as a wind-instrument of the flute kind. Fabricius 
w r as among the first to object to this view of the subject. 

It is stated that about the commencement of the last century 
Dodart laid before the Academy of Sciences of Paris three memoirs 
on the theory of the voice, in which he considered the larynx to be 
a wind-instrument of the horn and not of the flute kind. Ferrein, 
in a communication also made to the Academy of Sciences, maintained 
that the larynx is a stringed instrument — each giving w 7 hat seemed to 
him plausible arguments to sustain his theory. At a later period, 
even to the present day, a large number of physiologists regard the 
larnyx as a wind-instrument of the reed kind, such as the clarionet 
or hautboy. 

We have given quite a variety of opinions, sufficient to show that 
the larynx is consrdefediry men of science quite a complicated instru- 
ment. We shall differ from them in one essential point, which is that 
it is not like any of the aforesaid instruments ; but the degree of likeness 
of each is to be placed on the instruments that most fully imitate 
the qualities of the voice; for the larynx is the king of instru- 
ments — the grand model, fashioned by the Divine hand, animated by 
a presiding spirit, stamped with the seal of perfection, and which man 
must be ever content to imitate without the hope of equaling. The 
crowning excellence of all inventions must ever lie in their nearness 
of approach to its wonderful capacities. Yet it is a delicate little 
instrument, nicely packed away out of sight — a miniature affair, too 
common to be appreciated, because every person is in possession 
of one. 

Many long years are required, and freely given, to enable persons 
to achieve excellence in performing on musical instruments, and many 
years of valuable time are spent in acquiring a knowledge of the dead 
languages, and also to master the orthography of our own — an orthog- 
raphy which we might reasonably wish were dead; while the ani- 
mating and vitalizing spirit of our own tongue — the sweet musical 
tones of speech, the delightful avenue of expression through which 
the tenderest and best of life's joys are exchanged — is neglected and 
abused, without the slightest compunctions of conscience. Had we 
cultivated voices, music would flow from human lips in speech as well 


as in song, and the pleasure of social intercourse would be enhanced 

The little vocal pipe wherein voice-sound is produced forms a 
portion of the respiratory channel, and its entire management comes 
under the control of respiratory and muscular action. 

\Ye inhale air and exhale breath. We can do so for an indefinite 
period of time and produce no sound ; but by volition, so simple we 
are scarcely conscious that we make it, this breath ripples with sound 
freighted with thought. Music, the emotions and passions, the tones 
of tenderness and love, and the shrieks of fear, are borne on its 
invisible wings. 

By what process is this achieved? Why do we make one breath 
without sound and the next one vocal with ideas? How does it 
become a motive power of communication from person to person? 
We mav sit in a vast church filled with human beings — breathing 
creatures — and a death-like silence prevail. One single voice bursts 
forth in song and the atmosphere is filled with sound, the whole 
superstructure seems alive with melody, and all the delicious variety 
and sweetness of tones are made by air-waves caused by breath 
playing on the vocal chords. 

It is said that the voice is an effort of volition ; so it is, and so also 
are all the efforts we make. But the place and manner of producing 
voice-sounds are matters of some importance to those who have weak 
voices, or are suffering from bad management or loss of voice. 

To explain, in the simplest manner possible, how voice is produced, 
we will say that by volition the chords at the bell-like cavity of the 
larynx contract so as to collect and retain in the larynx the exhaling 
column of air, and the expulsion of this concentrated breath plays on 
the vocal chords, causing their vibration. The principle is that of the 
Eolian harp. The waves of air sent rapidly out through the mouth 
produce a sound we call voice, and all sounds made in this way 
are denominated voice-sounds. Perhaps the nearest thing we can 
refer to toward illustrating the manner in which the vocal chords 
contract, and at the same time to show the power which the con- 
centrated breath displays when forced through a small aperture. 
it< susceptibility of modulation into a great variety of tones, is the 
set of whistling. The flexibility and contractility of the lips in some 
persons is truly wonderful, but of course not so much so as in the 
chords of the glottis. In the whistling act there is wanting the bell 
or round-shaped cavities of the mouth and larynx to give resonance 
to the vibrations. 


It will be observed that inueli talk is frequently indulged in about 
chest-tones and head-tones, to designate the grave and acute sounds. 
All this is simply absurd, as all voice-sounds are made in the same 
place — neither in the head nor in the chest, but in the glottis, by the 
vibrations of the chordce vocales, before referred to. 

There are a given number of vibrations in each note of the scale 
or gamut, and the pitch of a sound always depends upon the number 
of air-waves or vibrations which produce it. These determine the 
tone, and any variation in number changes the pitch. The range of 
voice, in degree from high to low, depends upon the ability one has 
of contracting and relaxing the vocal chords. The fewer the vibra- 
tions the graver the sound, and vice versa. Loudness of voice depends 
upon the extent of the vibrations, and these again will depend alto- 
gether upon the quality of the air and the force with which it is 
driven through the larynx. 

But the purity of tone depends upon the regularity or evenness 
of the air-waves. There is, however, what we denominate a pitch of 
voice which is peculiar to each one of us, and is as designative as any 
other individual characteristic. Every one finds that there is a range 
of tones on which it is easier or more natural to speak than on any 
other. This can not and should not be interfered with, although the 
greatest possible range above and below may be cultivated. 

Speech is made of a great variety of vocal and breath-sounds ; and 
by these sounds, joined or woven together into words and sentences, we 
convey our thoughts and feelings to each other. This we call artificial 
language, because it has been sanctioned by long use, and is agreed 
upon, and remains as yet the only systematic method by which, as 
human, intelligent beings, we converse and make known our desires. 
We also have symbols of these sounds, or a system of notation, by 
which we convey all these thoughts, desires, and emotions by what we 
denominate written language. This table of notation is with us the 
English alphabet, whose twenty-six letters, as before stated, are sup- 
posed to stand as symbols or representatives of the various sounds in 
the English language. Unfortunately, however, this table is sadly 
imperfect and fatal to any systematic method of orthography or pro- 
nunciation. For instance, we say that a has four regular sounds, 
which is an utter impossibility. The letter a could, with as much 
truth, stand as a representative of the sixteen vowel-sounds as for 
the four sounds it now symbolizes. The broad and short sound of a 
have no nearer similarity in sound to each other than they have to 
any other vowel-sound. This want of a distinct character for each 



sound loaves us entirely without a basis upon which to construct a 
system of pronunciation which would be orderly and satisfactory. 

The eye and ear need the same training. They must be taught in 
harmony, else the results will be imperfect. If the letter a always 
stood for a simple sound, having once learned it, the eye would recog- 
nize it, and the voice know at once what sound to make. Now it 
must have some person's authority, who has several other backers of 
equal authority; and if these are not at hand, it must venture a guess 
of one sound out of four, and run the gauntlet of ridicule if the guess 
do not hit upon the sanctioned sound. Perhaps no one realizes the 
painful vexations which result from this more than the teacher of 
elocution. However, we can only enter our protest, and then do our 
best with the material we have. 

AVe will now return to the letters, and divide them into three dis- 
tinct classes. 

A has four regular sounds. 

Name sound, as in ale 

Grave sound, " ah 

Broad sound, " awl 

Short sound, " at 

E has two regular sounds. 

Long sound, as in eel 

Short sound, " ell 

I has two regular sounds. 

Long sound, as in isle 

Short sound, " ill 

has three regular sounds. 

Long sound, as in 

Close sound, " 

Short sound, " 





?7has three regular sounds. 

Long sound, as in mute 

Short sound, " up 

Close sound, " full 


J' has three sounds. 

Y combination of ye, as in . . youth 

Y duplicate of I long, " . . rhyme 

Y duplicate of I short, " . . hymn 

Oi, as in 

. oil | Ou, as in 



The Vowels — The English Alphabet — Vowels and Aspirates — Vibra- 
tions oe Atmosphere in Speaking and Singing — Vowel-sounds the 
motive power op speech. 

The letters a, e, i, o, u, y, are called vowels. These vowels we 
will call vocalized breath-sound. They are the only pure voice- 
sounds which we have, and constitute the musical material of both 
speech and song, and are embodied in all passional and emotional 
expressions of voice. They are free, open sounds, the simplest ones 
we make, and are capable of great prolongation. 

They are produced in the larynx, and derive their character of 
sound by the position and shape of the mouth, tongue, and lips while 
uttering them. 

To render these sounds full, clear, and pure in tone, free from 
nasal adulterations, and without running into a different vowel-sound, 
is an important object to attain,* one that requires persistent care and 
practice, and without which there can not be such a thing as a sweet 
and musical voice. 

This practice should be instituted as a daily exercise until the 
abdominal and respiratory muscles work in perfect harmony with 
the vocal chords, and all have gained sufficient strength and unity 
of action to enable the pupil to prolong the sound in pure and even 
tone ; also to increase it in great volume, and diminish again to an 
almost imperceptible tone, yet preserving the evenness and uniformity 
of the vibrations. 

In our table of twenty-six letters, or English alphabet, we have 
all the characters used in the broad and almost boundless field of 
English literature. They also stand as representatives of all the 
sounds we use in speech. It seems hardly possible, when we think 
of the many words spoken and 'the hundreds of thousands of volumes 
written, that these twenty-six letters should comprise all the material 
used in this great work. Imperfect as they are, we may congratulate 
ourselves that they have served so good and grand a purpose, and 
that they have enabled us to accomplish so much. 

* J is a combination of ah-e. In making and prolonging it the voice must glide into one 
or the other of these sounds. It ought to be placed with the diphthongs. 


They tell us, either in written or spoken words, all we know of the 
history of the earth on which we live and of the human family; all 
we have learned of the progress of science and art. They give us 
the ideal creations of the novelist and the poet. They are the me- 
dium through which we have had transmitted to us the inspirations 
of prophets and seers. And yet in our spoken language we have not 
treated them well, and we continue every day to treat them not only 
disrespectfully, but meanly; for we deprive them of the proper dis- 
play of their great beauty by not articulating them clearly. 

Now it is important that all should become acquainted with these 
little symbols; study their forms and proportions as expressed in 
sounds, and learn what are their specific uses. 

The vowels have a mission specifically their own. The subvowels 
and aspirates have quite another. 

The vowels convey the full voice. All the vowels, when clearly 
and fully uttered, vibrate nothing but voice-sound. They are used as 
motive power to convey words from the speaker to the listener. We 
might almost say we shoot words on these sounds. We will take for 
illustration the word hope. Let us sound the long vowel o alone ; then 
the apirates h and p by themselves; then unite them, and we find the 
importance which is attached to voice vibrations. If we articulate 
the aspirates by themselves, they can be heard but a few yards from 
us ; but when uttered in connection with vowels they are easily dis- 
tinguished at a comparatively great distance. 

"Wonderful truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in the stars above; 
But not less in the bright flowers under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Gorgeous flowers in the sunlight shining, 

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 

Buds that open only to decay. 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 

Flaunting gaily in the golden light; 
Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 

Tender wishes blossoming at night. 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming, 
Workings are they of the self-same powers 

Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers." 


A given number of vibrations make a particular note or tone, but 
a forcible continuance of the tone makes pr6longation. Singing can 
be heard farther than speaking, for the reason that there is a greater 
prolongation of vowel-sounds in song than in speech. This is 
philosophical. The atmosphere surrounding the earth, by a beautiful 
and wise provision of our Creator, is made of vibratory and elastic 
quality, which renders it the general receptacle and medium of sound. 
Voice-sound being a sensation produced by tremulous motion, the 
waves of air thus continuously agitated convey the pulsations to the 
ear. Therefore the more forcible and continuous these pulsations the 
farther the sound is conveyed. It is the rapid and continuous vibra- 
tion of the vocal muscles that produce the prolongation of sound ; and 
the more even the pulsation the smoother and more musical the tones. 

If we speak, in an ordinary conversational pitch of voice, the 
words hope or home, we find the vibrations of the vowels are stopped 
in the mouth for the articulating organs to form the letters p and m ; 
but if we sing the words, the vibrations are continued as long as we 
dwell upon that particular note. In singing the articulatory sounds 
are secondary to the vowel or emotional sounds; while in speaking 
the expression of thought and ideas requires the clearly-defined expres- 
sion of the constrained aspirate and sub vowel sounds. Therefore, if we 
wish our voices to penetrate to great distances, we must use force that 
will produce continuous vibrations, sufficient to carry the sound to the 
desired point. If we have not power to do this, the sound of course 
must stop exactly where the vibration or air-wave ceases. Let this 
fact be distinctly impressed upon the minds of all who desire to 
become public speakers. 

Another fact must be remembered, which is, that it is one thing to 
be heard and quite another thing to be understood. A speaker may 
have great power in rolling out sounds, yet the aspirates and sub- 
vowels may be so feebly given, or mouthed in such a slovenly way, as 
to make the speech all sound and no sense. It is plain that the vowels 
must receive great practice in regard to loudness, to length of tone, to 
clearness of tone, to evenness in swelling and diminishing the same sound, 
either for speaking or singing. 

The vowel-sounds are the basis of spoken language, and subserve 
a double purpose. They are not only the motive power of \speech, 
but express the musical tones, and to a great degree the affectional 
and passional elements. This will be readily seen if we notice the 
utterances of animals and birds, also of children before they learn 
to express their wants and desires by articulated words. 



Vocal Gymnastics — Exercises in Accent and Emphasis — Sounds of 

the Letter A. 

Every pupil should be required to notice distinctly not only all the 
specific sounds of our language, simple and compound, but also the 
different and exact positions of the vocal organs necessary to produce 
them. The teacher should unyieldingly insist upon having these 
two things faithfully attended to ; for success in elocution and music 
absolutely demands it. No one therefore should wish to be excused 
from a full and hearty compliance. Master these elementary princi- 
ples, and you will have command of all the mediums for communi- 
cating your thoughts and feelings. 

In practicing the following vocal-sounds the mouth must be as 
wide open and the lips as free and expanded as the nature of the sound 
will allow. The sounds must be made pure and strong, free from any 
nasal taint ; the position of the body elevated enough to permit the 
perfect and harmonious action of the dorsal and abdominal muscles. 

When the sound is entirely emitted the mouth must be closed, and 
the replenishing breath received slowly and moderately through the 
nose. There must be no raising of the shoulders, nor any kind of 
heaving or motion of the upper portions of the lungs; but an even 
inhalation, that will contract the diaphragm and put in motion the 
abdominal muscles. 

The pupil in elocution and music is strongly urged to attend to the 
right and the wrong method of producing the sounds of our letters, as 
well as in enunciating words. By all means make the effort entirely 
below the diaphragm, while the chest is comparatively at rest; and 
as you value health and life, and good natural speaking, avoid the cruel 
practice of exploding the sounds, by whomsoever taught or recommended. 
The author's long experience and practice, with his sense of duty, justify 
this protest against that unnatural manner of coughing out the sounds, 
as it is called. Nine tenths of his hundreds of pupils whom he has 
cured of the bronchitis have induced the disease by this exploding 
process, which ought itself to be exploded. 


Bear constantly in mind that all sounds are made of vibrations of air. 
We will vocalize the sound of a, thus : 

Ha h. 

We will next produce the vocal-sound, leaving off the aspirate, which 
will give us the grave sound of a, commencing full and strong, grad- 
ually diminishing in force and quantity of sound until it ceases. 

Great care must be observed to make the a h expulsion 

of the breath even, that the sound emitted may be smooth and pure, 
bearing in mind that converting all the breath into sound gives purity 
and sweetness ; whereas, if it is allowed to escape without being thus 
used, a husky or rasping noise will accompany the voice-sound. After 
having repeated a few times the example given, we will reverse the 
effort; after which we will unite the swell and diminish; and then 
reverse it. 

These are daily exercises for the voice ; and in each succeeding 
daily practice the endeavor should be to increase the volume and 
length of sound ; but caution must be used, lest it fatigue the organs 
too much. 

For a second step in measure, we will divide the swell into half 
the length, the teacher beating or counting the time. 

" Then I heard a strain of music, 

So mighty, so pure, so dear, 
That my very sorrow was silent, 

And my heart stood still to hear. 
It rose in harmonious rushing 

Of mingled voices and strings, 
And I tenderly laid my message 

On the music's outspread wings. 

And I heard it float farther and farther, 

In sound more perfect than speech; 
Farther than sight can follow, 

Farther than soul can reach. 
And I know that at last my message 

Has passed through the golden gate ; 
So my heart is no longer restless, 

And I am content to wait." 

We will now practice on three notes of the scale involving the 
diminish and swell. Commence softly on the second note, increasing 
and slurring mip sl full swell on the first note; gradually diminish 
and slur again to the second note, making it an almost imperceptible 
sound ; rise to the third note, and descend in the same way, catching 
breath at the diminishing note. 


To shorten this vocalized breath-sound cut it up for the formation 
of words and syllables. We will repeat the word Ah a great many 
times in quick succession, making three sounds at each effort: the 
first one very loud, the second much fainter, and the third one a 
mere echo of the second : An-a/i-ah. 

In the examples just given we take the first step in forming words. 
By giving stress or force to the first effort, lessening it on the second, 
and letting the third receive the natural diminution of the sound, we 
bring into use accent. In this second unaccented expulsion we get 
the true sound of ah as used in all conditions where there is no partic- 
ular stress needed. 

Examples. — I saw a man and a "boy in a field after a horse, a cow, and 
a sheep, while a hawk, a swallow, and a robin flew over them all. Charles 
bought a large and a small apple for a cent of a woman who had a stall beside 
a stream where a lad caught a pike, a roach, and a trout. Ah, alms, arch, ark, 
arms, art, aunt, ardent, argue. 

Here is an illustration of the manner in which words are enun- 
ciated: AitT^-ly, ART-less-lj, ART-i-zan. 

In these examples the accent is on the first syllable, while the others 
are merely spoken loud enough to be heard. 

In the following examples the accent is on the second syllable, the 
first one being like the last sound of the preceding measure : Ap-PLi- 
ance, so-NO-rom, be-HA v-ior. 

The accented syllables should be as prominent to the ear as these 
letters are to the eye. 

" Let each cadence melt in languor 
Softly on my ravished ears, 
Till my half-closed eyes are brimming 
With a rapture of sweet tears. 

Summon back fond recollections, 

Such as gentle sounds prolong; 
Flights of memory embalming 

In the amber of a song." 

" Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with mus^c, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away." 


In expelling the vowel-sounds we find the first one in each measure 
is strongly accented. Now this accent is the element of emphasis. Let 
us give it several times, as heretofore, and increase in strength and 
loudness in each succeeding effort. 

A as in ale is the name sound of a, and must receive the same 
kind and amount of practice as the preceding sound. Ace, ache, age. 
This is always the sound of the article a when contrasted with the 
word the; as, I said a man, not the man; a book, not the book; a horse, 
not the horse ; a knife, not the knife ; a star, not the star. 

Now let us again expel this sound, and instead of making the 
emphasis, we will prolong the sound equally, as we did the first a. 

Let us do the same, but give the swell and diminish instead of the 
last equal long sound. 

Let us notice particularly the important principles here indicated, 
which are the expulsion of sounds, the accented and unaccented syllables, 
the emphasis, and the measure of speech and song, for these elements are 
involved in every word and sentence. The practice of these different 
sounds, according to examples, is for drilling and educating the organs 
to produce the sounds distinctly, clearly, and musically; and, as these 
vowels are all distinct sounds, not one should be neglected. Pupils 
might expect as rationally to perfect themselves in all the notes in 
the musical scale by practicing one or two as to think to render all 
these sounds correctly by practicing one or two of them. Each one 
requires a different position of the organs, and, of course, exercise on 
that position to insure strength of the class of muscles used. 

The third sound of A is broad; and is so called because in making 
it the mouth is, perpendicularly, more opened, or broader, than it is 
when we make other sounds of the same letter. This is shown by 
dropping and projecting the jaw, bringing the corners of the mouth 
nearer together, and projecting the lips. Awe, all, awl, Al-ba-ny, 
al-be-it, al-most, al-ter, al-ways, au-burn, au-dit, au-ger, au-thor, 
au-tumn, aw-ful, pal-frey, wa-ter (not wot-ter, as many say.) 

"Once the welcome light was broken, who shall say 
"What the un imagined glories of the day? 
"What the evil that shall perish in its ray? 

Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; 

Aid it, hopes of honest men; 

Aid it, paper ; aid it, type ; 

Aid it, for the hour is ripe, 
And our earnest must not slacken into play. 
Men of thought and men of action, clear the way I " 


We \vill practice these sounds as before, and see if we can not 
improve our manner of giving them by making the accent and the 
emphasis more prominent and musical: Awe — awe — awe. Being 
careful to observe the important points in this exercise, let us repeat, 
and give the long equal sound instead of the emphatic one. In 
making all the long single sounds we must keep the mouth and lips 
in the same position, from beginning to end, whether we make them 
equal all the way, or give the swell and diminish. 

The fourth sound of A is shoii, because we can not prolong it at all 
without changing this peculiar characteristic, as may be seen by trying 
it: ab, ac, ad, ap, ag, al, am, an, and, apt, as, ash, asp, at, ab-bot, 
ac-cent, ag-ile, af-ter, al-ley, am-ple, An-na, ap-ple, ar-row, as-pen, 
ax-es, hash, dash, can, fast, rash, sat, trap, rat, rams. Many incor- 
rectly tell us to give a long, intermediate sound to this a, nearly like 
the radical sound, as in fa-ther ; but this is entirely wrong, and comes 
from their not opening the mouth properly, and bringing forward its 
corners so as to avoid a very unpleasant nasal, whining sound. Thus 
they run from one extreme into another. Beware of such mistakes in 
this class of words — grasp, pass, etc. 

In passing from the radical sound into a in all and ale, and in 
gliding into a in at, we see in the former case that there is a continuous 
sound, which is called long because it can be continued without altera- 
tion ; while in the latter it was instantly stopped because it is a short 
sound, and never can be prolonged in speech without being altered or 
changed into something else. Let us try them again, and we shall see 
the marked difference between long and short sounds. 

To give the short sounds of a in mat, rat, cat, etc., open wide the 
mouth, project the under jaw and lips, and let them play freely in 
speaking such words as has, cast, etc. If any attempt is made to 
prolong this sound in such words as his and hat, it will run into the 
sound of e, as hah-et, hi-es. This short explosive sound can not be 
made without a violent effort of the abdominal muscles. 

" Poison be their drink, 
Gall, — worse than gall, — the daintiest meat they taste; 
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees; 
Their sweetest prospects — mouldering basalisks; 
Their music frightful — as the serpent's hiss; 
And boding screech-owls make the concert full." 

"Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; 
Though with patience he stand waiting, with exactness grinds he all." 



Vocal Gymnastics, continued — Sounds of E; Sounds of I; Sounds of 0; 
Sounds of U — Quantity and Quality. 

E has two regular sounds: first, the name-sound, which is capable 
of great prolongation, and must receive practice on all the examples 
given for the long and broad sounds of a. Eve, east, eel. 

The second sound of E is short, because we can not prolong it without 
altering it. Ebb, edge, egg, eld, elf, emblem, en-ter, ep-ic, er-rand, 
Es-sex, eth-ics, er-ror, ex-cel, ex-cept, ex-empt, ex-pense, ex-tend, 
beg, cell, dell, pen, gem, hen, jest, let, met, net, pet, guess, rent, sell, 
test, vest, well, yes, rest. Any attempt to prolong this sound will 
give us the mongrel sound as as in short a. 

In expelling triis short sound of e we must remember and distin- 
guish those important things, accent, emphasis, etc. We must be 
particular to drop and project the jaw a little in making this sound. 

" Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 
Around the setting sun, 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 
"Whose earthly race is run ? 

The "bright clouds answer' d — '"We depart, 

We vanish from the sky; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart 

For that which can not die ! ' " 

" Joys, that leap'd 
Like angels from the heart, and wander' d free 
In life's young morn to look upon the flowers, 
The poetry of nature, and to list 
The woven sounds of breeze, and "bird, and stream 
Upon the night air, have been stricken down 
In silence to the dust." 

I has two regular sounds: we give the first sound, which is long, in 
speaking its name. When pronounced in full it is diphthongal, com- 
mencing with the sound of ah and ending with e. Ice, ides, ire, isle, 
i-dle, i-ron (i-urn), i-o-ta, i-vo-ry, bide, cite, drive, pine, knife, hide, 
mite, nine, pie, ride, site, tile, vile, wine, etc. What part of a sound 
should be prolonged ? As a general rule, the radical part, which is 


where the vocal organs first open on the sound. But i long is an 
exception. The first radical ah sound glides into ee. Therefore the 
position of the organs must change. In giving this name-sound of i 
we must be very cautious about having the organs in the right position, 
and making the proper effort from the lower muscles before alluded to. 

The second sound of lis short. If, ill, imp, in, ink, inch, inn, is, it, 
itch, illi-cit, im-be-cile, in-ci-dent, in-dis-tinct, in-hab-it, in-quis-i-tive, 
in-sip-id, in-stinct, in-di-vis-i-bility, is-o-late ; hid, cid, did, fib, gilt, 
hilt, jib, kid, lid, mit, nit, pin, quip, sit, tin, victim, wish, zinc. 

Let us remember that in expelling the vowel-sounds we are prac- 
ticing some of the most important principles involved in reading, 
speaking, and singing — measure, accent, and emphasis. 

A peculiarly soft sound is given to i when it follows the hard 
guttural sound of g and k. Begin by making two syllables out of one, 
and then gradually shorten them into one by degrees, speaking them 
faster and faster. Begin thus: gee-ide, gee-ide, gee-ide, gyide; kee-ind, 
kee-ind, kee-ind, ky-ind, kyind ; geear-di-an ; kyind-ness, lov-ing- 
kyind-ness; which gives us a very soft and pleasant sound, both in 
speech and song. Let us make our language as agreeable as possible, 
and we can produce much better effects. 

" Laughing voices, scraps of song, 
Lusty music, loud and strong, 
Rustling of the banners blowing, 
Whispers as of rivers flowing, 
"Whistle of the hawks we bore 
As they rise and as they soar ; 
Now and then a clash of drums 
As the rabble louder hums, 
Now and then a burst of horns 
Sounding over brooks and bourns, 
As in merry guise we went 
Biding to the tournament." 

lias three regular sounds: first, its name-sound, or long. Make 
the long name-sounds full and complete, by giving them plenty of 
room. Coal, dole, home, hope, dome, hole, ho-ly, mole, hone, mote, 
note, pole, role, sole, stole, whole, whol-ly, whole-some. 

Swell of voice is seen when we begin with a little sound, and grad- 
ually increase or widen it as we give it continuously. This is a very 
important practice, but the sound should be given smoothly as it 
becomes louder and longer. We will now expel this long sound of o 
by giving the accented, unaccented, and emphatic sounds, as before, 
with the pure measure of speech and song. This is an excellent 


sound to prolong ; but we must be sure to keep the mouth well opened, 
by dropping and projecting the under jaw, protruding the rounded 
lips, and keeping all the organs in the same state till we complete 
the exercise. 

In making the swells and diminish with this sound, as with all the 
other single long sounds, we must not move any of the organs, from 
beginning to end, thus shoving the sound, as it might be said. 

« O world ! O life ! O time ! 

On whose last steps I climb, 
Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
"When will return the glory of your prime? 

No more — oh, nevermore. 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight ; 
Fresh Spring, and Summer, and "Winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 

No more — oh, nevermore." 

The second sound of is close — oo ; so called because the lips and 
internal vocal organs are brought close together in pronouncing it ; as 
ooze, oo-zy, oo-zing; coo, do, fool, roof, soot, tool, moon, loom, cool, 
doom, hoop, noon, poor, boo-by, cool-ing, do-ing, fool-ing, poo-dle, 
goose, soup, tooth. In prolonging equally this close sound of o we 
must not pucker the lips too much, but rather turn them out a little 
all around, like a funnel. 

The third sound of is short; and, like the other short sounds, can 
not be prolonged. Odd, of, off, on, or, oz, ob-ject, oc-tave, of-fer, 
om-e-let, on-ward, op-e-ra, or-der, bod-kin, con-ceit, cob-bler, dol-lar, 
fol-ly, gog-gles, hob-by, jol-ly, mod-el, non-sense, rob-in, yon-der, 
bot-tle, dot-ted, fop-pish, gob-ble, jock-ey, knock-er, lot-te-ry, mon-u- 
ment, non-plus, pop-py, wan-ton, etc. . 

In expelling this short sound of o, and giving the proper accent, 
etc. , let us vocalize all the breath that escapes, so as to prevent un- 
pleasant sensations in the throat and injury to the sounds; and by 
remembering how we pronounce the forbidding word to children, 
"Och, och, och! let that alone," we shall be the better able to do it. 

U has three regular sounds : first, its name-sound, because it is the 
sound we make in speaking its name. At least we get this sound 
pure in the word you. Un-ion, u-nique, u-ni-son, u-ni-ty, u-ni-form, 

When the name-sound of u is at the beginning of a word or syl- 
lable, it has a triple sound; that is, it is a diphthong, composed of 



the consonant-sound of y, and its own double or diphthongal sound, 
which consists of short e and the full sound of u. By drawling out 
its Qame-sound, as in use, these three elements may be seen; thus 
y-u-so : also in un-ion, nat-ure, vol-ume ; but when a consonant-sound 
goes before u in the same syllable, the sound of y is omitted. We 
must never pronounce duty, dooty; tune, toon; news, nooz; stew, 
stoo; dew, doo. 

We shall find it somewhat difficult at first to expel this name- 
sound of u unless we begin aright. Let us therefore commence as 
though we were going to pronounce short e and close o together, like 
ew t or speak the word lute, repeating it several times rapidly, and 
thus leave off 1 the sound of I and t; thus, lute, lute, lute, ute, ute, 
ute, ew. 

Now we will prolong this double sound by dwelling on the radical 
part of it, and keeping the vocal organs in the same position as when 
we first began the sound, and make it all the same size. 

Now let us make the swell and diminish with it, and be very careful 
to prolong only the root of the sound. 

TJie second sound of U is short, as in up. 2W-nips de-murred at the 
numb-skull of a musk-j scul-lion ; a cowr-teous hus-hsmd coup-led himself 
to a tum-bling tur-tle ; burst with the bulk of fun and run to the un- 

TJie third sound of U is full, as in pull. T>ru-tw.s, the cru-el cuck-oo, 
would \m.-brue his youth-ful hands in Ruth's rouge; sin-fid butch-ers' 
bid-let push-ed puss grace-ful-ly on the peaceful cush-ion. 

To expel this full sound of % in a proper manner is quite hard for 
most persons, merely because the vocal organs are not in the right 
position, especially the lips, which must be projected straight forward, 
without turning them either up or down. Let us speak drawlingly 
the first syllable of the word w-man ; let us prolong the letter o a 
little, and this will be the exact sound of full u. 

"And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 

The fire which we endure, it was repaid 

By him to whom the energy was given 

Which this poetic marble hath arrayed 

With an eternal glory, which, if made 

By human hands, is not of human thought; 

And time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid 

One ringlet in the dust; nor hath it caught 

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought." 
"The light winds, which from wnstaining wings 

Shed the music of many mwrmurings." . 


Vanishing force is exhibited when we begin a word or sentence 
very loud and full, and gradually diminish it to a point of inaudibility. 

Quantity means the longer or shorter time employed in enunci- 
ating sounds, syllables, words, and sentences. The further we wish a 
sound to be heard the longer it must be made, and with a proportioned 
enlargement of its volume. Quality means the kind of voice we use, 
and may be soft, harsh, clear, smooth, rough, or deep. 

There are two special objects to be kept in view. These are the 
proper cultivation of both voice and ear in connection with all the 
elements of speech and song. 

We shall find that practicing each vowel-sound and vocal conso- 
nant-sound on all the notes of the scale is of primary importance, and 
that perfect success can not be attained without such exercise ; and 
we must carry each element to its utmost extent in the right direc- 
tion. We can obtain as good control over our vocal organs as over' 
any of our bodily organs. 

" Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
"Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; 
Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God." 
"We look before and after, and pine for what is naught. 
Our sweetest laughter with some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." 


Pitch of the Voice — Diatonic Scale — Scale or Ladder for the Voice. 

Pitch of the voice is a most important subject, and fortunately 
for us nature has given us just the thing we need to definitely fix all 
kinds of reading, speaking, and singing, in giving us the diatonic 
scale, on some one of whose notes or tones the pitch of the voice is 
always found. Now, this scale consists of seven different pitches, five 
of which are each a whole tone apart from its neighbor, and two of 
them only half a tone apart ; but the whole ones may be divided into 
half-tones, and these into quarters, these into eighths, these into six- 
teenths, these into thirty-seconds, and these into sixty-fourths; and 
all of these are used more or less by every one who talks in the 
usual manner. 


By stud) jig the effects that are produced by the voice when we 
permit it to range from the lowest to the highest notes in the natural 
scale, we find that the half-tones always occur between the third 
and fourth and seventh and eighth notes or pitches, both in speech 
and song. 

The lower three are for private conversation ; also for emphasis in 
very grave and solemn subjects, hereafter to be more fully explained. 
The upper three are for impassioned words and phrases, where the 
feelings predominate over the thoughts ; and the middle four are for 
all the ordinary and general objects of reading and speaking, where 
the great object is to be heard by all Avhen imparting information on 
any subject whatever, either by explaining or illustrating the truths 
of science, philosophy, or religion. 

When speaking to a person near by, when in company with others, 
and I do not wish them to hear what I say, I speak on a lower note, or 
pitch, as it is called, and suppress my voice so as to be heard only by 
the person addressed; thus: "My dear friend, I hope you will be 
very careful about saying any thing ill of your neighbors, and always 
do as you would be done by." In most cases of this kind the voice 
will drop to its lowest natural pitch, or to C, the first note in the 
diatonic scale. 

When we call to a person at a great distance we naturally raise 
our voices to the highest notes or pitches; thus: "Mr. Hall, come 
back ; I have a letter for you." All of which is given on the upper 
pitches of voice, ranging from eight to ten. 

If we address a person at a medium distance, in company with 
others, in a public assembly, for instance, the voice will range about 
midway between the first and eighth; thus: "I wish you all to hear 
what I say before I close; it is this: never, on any consideration, 
profess what you do not believe; for if you do you are hypocrites." 

In the above three examples we see what are the two extreme 
pitches of voice, and the medium ones, which comprehend all that 
are ever used in speech; for all the voice-sounds we ever hear come 
within the scale of the eight notes, though really there are but seven, 
the eighth being the first repeated, just an octave or eighth above or 
below. (See the illustrations.) 

As a general rule, we must not begin to speak or read below our 
third note (which is the upper one of the lower pitches), nor above 
our fifth note ; for if we do we shall be quite sure to run into extremes. 
Therefore it is just as necessary to pitch our voices on the right key 
in reading and speaking as it is in singing; for as we begin so shall 


we be likely to continue to the end of the exercise. Let us be certain 
that we are in the right way, and then persevere in it. 

Gracchus, the Roman orator, used to have a person stand behind 
him, privately, to give him skillfully the proper note when he wished 
to change the pitch of his voice and quicken or soften its vehemence. 
The knowledge of this fact led the author of these pages to study and 
practice elocution and music together, and taught him that there is 
nothing in the latter that does not exist in the former. We must 
practice each of these sixteen vowel-sounds on every pitch of voice 
found in the diatonic scale, or voice-ladder, both in the speaking and 
singing tones. 

8. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

7. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

6. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

5. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

4. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

3. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

2. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

1. Ale, an, all, at, eel, ell, isle, ill, etc. 

The Diatonic Scale is so called because it extends through or 
comprehends all the pitches of voice and sound ever used in speaking 
or singing. Let us erect this scale, or ladder for the voice, on our 
lowest natural note, as before indicated. 






Seven. Half stop, or tone. 



Six. Whole stop, or tone. 



Eive. Whole stop, or tone. 



Pour. Whole stop, or tone. 



Three. Half stop, or tone. 



Two. Whole stop, or tone. 



One. Whole stop, or tone. 

Here is a ladder for the voice to ascend or descend on, or to move 
along upon any of its sounds ; and it is always on some one of these, 
for it can be nowhere else. It naturally divides itself into three 
parts — the lower pitches for depressed tones of conversation, and 
grave and sublime emphasis; the middle for the common uses of 
speech; and the upper ones for calling out at a distance, and for 
impassioned eloquence. 



To extend the compass of voice is very desirable both in reading 
and singing; and an excellent way thus to stretch the voice is to 
speak any phrase on as low a note or pitch as we can, and ascend the 
scale, or voice-ladder, by regular steps. 


8. | O you hard hearts ! you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts ! 

you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts ! 

you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts! 

you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts ! 

you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts ! 

you cruel, etc. 


you hard hearts ! 

you cruel, etc. 

(Lowest.) 1. 

you hard hearts ! 

you cruel men of Kome ! 

After practicing this exercise awhile, we must try to go higher and 
lower than these eight degrees, uttering the w T ords as musically as we 
can, and seeing that the organs are moving properly. 

The four vowel-sounds which are presented above, when naturally 
given, will be found on the lower half of the scale, and the other ones 
on the upper half; thus : 

8. Ee 



7. I 



6. Oo 






4. A 



3. A 



2. A 



1. A 



For the varied purposes of elocution the diatonic scale of seven 
notes is divided only into three parts, which must be perfectly under- 
stood, otherwise we shall have no solid foundation on which to build 
these arts. These divisions are the tone pitches. 

The lower pitch extends from one to three inclusive — i. e., one, 
two, three ; the middle pitch extends from three to six — three, four, 
five, six; the highest pitch from six to eight — six, seven, eight. The 


pupil must practice on these several pitches until he or she can tell 
instantly on which of them the voice is at any time. 

Directions for Talking the Scale. — A practice to be highly 
recommended is the talking of the scale, which may be done with the 
accompaniment of the piano or some other musical instrument, as 
follows: Strike the middle C of the key -board repeatedly, keeping 
up the sound as long as required, and speak a whole sentence or 
couplet in that tone, prolonging the accented vowel in each word in 
as loud, clear, round, and full a voice as possible, and without any 
variation of the pitch; then strike the next note below, and repeat 
all the words in that tone ; and so on down in the same way until the 
lowest possible pitch of voice is reached. Then ascend the scale in 
the same manner, speaking all the words on each note slowly, taking 
ample time for full prolongation, until the highest falsette pitch of 
voice is reached, without breaking into singing tones ; then gradually 
descend. For example, take the sentence, " O ye cruel men of Rome ! " 






Then talk on the third, the fifth, the seventh, and back again ; then 
from the third to the seventh, and back again ; from the first to the 
seventh, and back again. This practice persevered in will give great 
strength and compass to the voice, and flexibility, purity, and sweetness 
to the tones. 

When classes are drilled in concert in this exercise, the teacher 
should beat time, and be careful that harmony of pitch is preserved. 














— of- 









- Ro - me ! 



cru - el — 



- Ro - me ! 







- Ro - me ! 










— ye 




— of- 







— of- 





Elements of Speech — Exercises in Articulation — Table of Aspirates — 
Aspirates and Subvowels — Table of Subvowels. 

Human speech is made of vibrations of air, or exhaling breath. 
There are two kinds of sounds made by this exhaling breath — one we 
denominate voice or vowel-sound, the other breath or aspirate-sound. 
All voice-sounds are made in the glottis, whether they are pure open 
vowels or subvowels, as has been before explained. The aspirates 
are unvocalized sounds ; that is, the air in passing through the glottis 
is not disturbed by the vocal chords, but passes out freely as in 
common breathing, is retained in the mouth, and shaped into peculiar 
characteristics or waves of sound by the tongue, teeth, and lips. 

What we term the subvowels are voice-sounds, restrained and 
articulated by the tongue, teeth, and lips, just as are the aspirates. 
Indeed, these are equally paired, each of the aspirates having a cor- 
relative vocal or atonic, made by exactly the same position of the 
organs; the difference being that one is pure breath and the other 
vocal breath, or breath that has been previously agitated by the vocal 
chords. Tlie aspirates are articulated breath; the subvowels are vocalized 
articulated breath. 

The table in this chapter will show the division, giving the names 
of each, as also an arrangement of the correlatives, followed by a 
full description of the way in which each is produced by the organs 
of speech. 

They are minutely described for the benefit of those who lisp, 
stammer, and have imperfect articulation; the last-named being 
much more numerous, but equally incapable of making themselves 

The sounds must be made correctly and practiced with care, for 
they are the elements of speech. They, with the exercises, are given 
as a practice for the articulating organs. The exercises on the vowel- 
sounds have been hitherto mostly for strengthening, increasing, and 
beautifying the voice ; now we want the same perfection in the enun- 
ciation of letters, syllables, and words, and they should be used as a 


daily practice even after the pupil has mastered them. They do for 
the articulating muscles what the five-finger piano exercises do for the 
muscles of the fingers and hands ; i. e. , give power and flexibility of 
motion, and render them intuitively obedient to the will. 

Particularly do foreigners, who desire a correct pronunciation of 
our language, require a thorough drill on these sounds and their 
combinations. A few weeks of practice on these elements would do 
more thar» many months of study. The French and Germans find 
great difficulty in pronouncing the th. For th the former give z, and 
the latter give d ; making they, zay and day. For iv they give v — I vos 
for ivas; vot you zay for what you say. For p they place b — bleazes 
for phases. Such should be taught the true position of the articu- 
lating organs. A little practice will overcome the difficulty. 

Slovenliness in articulation is as deserving of reprehension as 
slovenliness in dress or gait. Indeed, much more so; for words are 
used to clothe our thoughts and give expression to our sentiments, 
but if not clearly and distinctly uttered they can never convey with 
purity the information we wish. 

Listen attentively to hear yourself pronounce the following exer- 
cises, and if your ears detect each word perfectly coined they will be 
much gratified. 


Down in the deep dungeon he did delve; the naming fire flashed full in his 
face. The glassy glaciers gleamed in glowing, gorgeous gloze on the glittering 
globe. The gly-phog-ra-pher glued the gluten glycerine, and gave golden 
gold-fish to the goitered goat-herd. The grunting groom groaned grossly at 
the golden grotto. 

Swift the streamlet's soft struggles sent strong strings, stopt stuffs of stam- 
mering stones. 

He accepts the tracts, and attempts hy his acts to conceal his faults. 

The glands, lands, hands, and sands; harh'dst, muzzl'dst, laid'st, and step'st, 
black' ndst and mangl'dst nothing. 

An ocean, an oyster, an iceberg, an uncle, an aunt, a niece, an ink-bottle, 
a numb-skull, and an ou-ran-og-ra-phist asked to be mask'd and rasp'd, slash'd 
and dash'd. 

Orb'd and robb'd he glow'd, ow'd, mow'd, and bestow'd; roasted and boasted 
of this thin and that thick thumping thimble. 

These, those, that, theirs, thine, and mine. 

Eoasting, toasting, boasting, smoking, gloating, singing, clinging, stinging, 
banking, flanking, and ranting. 

An exceeding expectant expected the expedient expedite, for an expedition 
to expel the expensive expert; explain the expletory and explode the exploit; 
and export the exponent by express, exclaiming excessively for the exchange 
of exchequer. 



"While wo watted for the fU watchman, the winds blew bleak along the 
UufUring bosom of the beaoh. Front rank, full face; fair and funny fanned 
the llaining lire full in his face. 

INFLUENCE. By George W. Bungay. 

Prop — follows drop, — and swells — 
With rain — the sweeping river; 
Word — follows word, — and tells — 
A truth — that lives— forever. 

Flake — follows flake, — like spirits 
Whose icings — the icinds — dissever ; 
Thought — follows thought, — and lights — ■ 
The realm of mind— forever. 

Beam — follows beam — to cheer 
The cloud — the bolt would shiver ; 
Throb — follows throb, — and fear 
Gives place to joy — forever. 

The drop, the flake, the beam, 
Teach us a lesson ever; 
The word, the thought, the dream, 
Impress the soul — forever. 

C has four sounds — 
C in cent, or s. 
C in clock, or k. 
C in suffice, or z. 
C in ocean, or jsh. 

F takes two sounds — 
F in fife. 
F in of— v. 

H takes one sound — 
H in hope. 

Table of Aspirates. 

K takes one sound — 
K in kirk. 

P takes one sound — 
P in pipe. 

Q has one sound — 
Q in queen. 

S takes four sounds — 
S in so — c. 
S in is — z. 
S in sure — sh. 
S in treasury — 2d of z. 

T takes two sounds — 
T in put. 
T in nation — sh. 

Ch takes three 
Ch in church. 
Ch in chaise. 
Ch in chasm. 

Th takes two sounds — 
Th in thin. 
Th in that. 

The following table shows the aspirates and subvowels arranged 
in pairs — the two sounds of which require the same position of the 
organs to produce them : 











/ W — oman 
\ Wh— at 


L Z, 2d sound. 

f Th- 




both are 


B takes one sound — 
B in bribe. 

D takes two sounds — 
D in did. 
D in banked, fined. 

G takes three sounds — 

G in gay — g hard. 

G in gem — -j. 

G in charge — z, 2d sound 

J takes one sound — 
J in June. 

L takes one sound — 
L in lay. 

M takes one sound — 
M in man. 

N takes one sound — 
N in name. 

Table of Subvowels. 

K has a single and double sound — 

R in arm — single after a vowel. 
R in Rome — double, trilled be- 
fore a vowel. 

V takes one sound — 

Y in vivid. 

W takes one sound — 
W in wall. 

X has the compound sound of g and 
X in exist. 

Y has three sounds — 

Y in youth. 

Y in hydrant (long i). 

Y in hymn (short i). 

Z takes two sounds — 
Z in zigzag. 


Aspirates — Manner of forming Aspirates — Sounds of C; F; H; P; Q; 

8; Z; K; T. 

In the formation of words the aspirates interfere and break off the 
vowel-sounds, whizzing, puffing, and buzzing between them in a very 
funny and inharmonious manner, somewhat like the noise of imple- 
ments or machinery in rapid motion. The ventriloquist is dependent 
upon the aspirates in imitating the noise of certain kinds of machinery 
and of escaping steam. These sounds are made by the tongue and 
lips, and are very penetrating ; the tongue assuming certain positions 
in the mouth in relation to the teeth and lips, forming avenues, angles, 
and corners around and through which the breath is forcibly expelled. 
The aspirated sounds make up a large part of our language, and are 
quite difficult to master in connection with the vowels and subvocals. 


Indeed, the majority of people never acquire a good articulation, 
which results from want of proper training of the organs used in 
making these sounds. 

Manv persons lisp all their lives for the reason that they have never 
been taught where to place the tongue to insure a distinct utterance 
of the sounds of th and s. They make the sound of th between the 
point of the tongue and the upper front teeth ; then instead of with- 
drawing the tongue within toward the roof of the mouth, where the 
sound of ^ is always produced, they simply repeat the th, not making 
the sound of s at all. The words this, these, and others of like ter- 
mination, lisping people pronounce as thith, ilietlie. 

Example. — A charming young gentleman expressed his lisping and con- 
fessed his love in this wise: "Tlrweet Thynthia, my heart-th treathure, thmile 
upon me, or I thall fly acroth the "broad bothom of the othean and thigh out 
my latht breath on thorn e foreign thore." 

Parents sometimes think lisping in their children very cunning; 
but the time will come when the children will think it neither cunning 
nor wise in their parents to have allowed them to retain such a habit. 
Let no person indulge in this childish habit ; it is not only ridiculous, 
but devoid of personal dignity. 

C takes four regular sounds, or rather at times it becomes the 
equivalent of s, sometimes of h, and again of z, and also of sh. When 
it is sounded as s in see or so, it takes what is called its soft or name- 

To produce this clear, shrill sound the teeth nearly, but do not quite, 
meet ; the lips are drawn away, and the end of the tongue is placed 
in close proximity to the roots of the upper front teeth, leaving just 
room enough for the breath to be forced over the end of the tongue 
and out through the mouth. With the organs in this position, make 
the endeavor to whisper the word see, and continue the sound of .$ 
without gliding into ee. 

It is very difficult for persons who lisp to make this sharp, clear, 
whistling sound. Indeed, but very few persons can articulate it dis- 
tinctly when, at the end of w r ords, it follows t or th. 

Practice the following with a view of gaining the sound distinctly: 
Withs, smiths, ghosts, hosts, masts, pasts, marts, Christs, boats, toasts, 
spits, splits, quits, writs. 

Pronounce the following, where c and s take exactly the same 
sound: City, cite, cede, cease, cent, cell, Cyprus, civet, citron, circle; 
saints, sinners, and singers saved Sampson's sisters, Sophia, Susan, 
and Cynthia. 


A very pretty ventriloquial exercise of this sound (c) is produced 
by imitating the sharp, clear noise made by the carpenter planing a 
board. The sound is prolonged, and then brought suddenly to a close 
in the effort to pronounce p. To make the illusion more complete, 
the performer will take a book or block of some kind and perform the 
pantomimic action of planing on the surface of a table, but must be 
very sure to cease the effort as soon as the p is sounded ; thus : 

C p, c p, c p, c__ p, cp. 

C usually takes this sound before e, i, and y — Cecil, facile, vagrancy. 

When c borrows the sound of k it is said to be hard, but it simply 
assumes the sound of h. This is the correlative of g hard, as in go. 
To form these two sounds the organs are placed in exactly the same 
position; the mouth is slightly open, and the end of the tongue 
pressed down against the lower front teeth. This effort forces the 
middle of the tongue up near the roof or hard palate in the form 
of an arch. To produce the clicking sound of a, the breath is then 
forcibly thrown over the tongue; to make the hard sound of g, the 
breath is vocalized before it is thrown over — that is all the difference. 
It takes this sound before a, 0, u, I, r, t — care, came, act, come, clock, 
craft, cane, cape, case, calf, cask, couple, cork. It is exactly like k 
in kin, kick, kirk, kit. 

Pronounce and spell, by the use of the sounds of the letters, the 
following: Climac-teric, cackle, cake, calico, caloric, cal-ca-reous, 
Capricorn, carcass, casque with classical cloak ; kicking, clicking, and 
kissing the keepsake. 

When these soft and hard sounds come together, s and c are re- 
quired; as in screech, scrawl, scream, scrubble, scripture, scur-ril, 
scutch-eon, San-skrit, school. 

C also takes the subvowel-sound of z, and the manner of producing 
it is the same as in making the soft sound of c, of which it is a 
correlative ; the difference being that in c soft the breath passes unvo- 
calized ; in z it is vocalized, giving a buzzing sound. C in suffice, s in 
cheese, and z in wheeze, all have the same sound, which is the first 
subvowel-sound of z. 

Very many words ending in s take this sound also ; as was, has, 
gas, arms, harms, swarms, rags, figs, drugs, tongs, gibs, fibs, bags, etc. 
When double s occurs, we give the soft sound ; as in grass, pass, glass, 
wit-ness, good-ness, bright-ness. 

C sometimes takes the sound of sh after an accent followed by 
ea, ia, eo, ean, ion. This is a pure aspirate -sound, and is the coun- 


tarpart of the second sound of z, as in azure, and is produced by 
shutting the teeth together and forcibly blowing the breath between 
them. When the breath is vocalized before it is thus forced through, 
it tnaikes the sound of z just mentioned — Grecian, conscientious, 
propitious ocean, retention, vicious. It has precisely the same sound 
as aft in sham, shine, shimmer, shoes. 

Examples of all the Sounds of C. — Cede, city, crime, clack, charm, 
social, suffice. * 

F is a pure aspirate. To make it the upper front teeth are placed 
on the lower lip and the breath blown through. V is the counter- 
part of this, only the breath is vocalized. In of, f takes the vocal 
sound, but its usual sound is a pure aspirate ; as form, feet, fuss, fool, 
infinite, effete, affirm, etc. 

H has one sound, which is produced by opening wide the mouth 
and forcibly expelling the breath. The vocal counterpart of this 
aspirate is the vowel ah — hit, harm, home, half, help, hand, etc. 

P also has one sound, which is an aspirate. It is made by pressing 
the lips tightly together, then suddenly separating them, as though 
going to whisper the word puff. It is simply a puff of air — pipe, port, 
post, ripe, pale, pip-pin. The vocal sound of this same effort is b — 
bribe, Jacob, break, babble. In Jacob, Jupiter, and Baptist, it is 
quite difficult to distinguish the one from the other. 

Q takes one sound, and is also an aspirate. The sound is quite 
similar to k, but in producing it the lips with the corners of the mouth 
protrude forward and closer together, instead of being drawn back, 
as in making k; nor is the tongue held down so firmly. Make the 
effort to whisper queen without reaching the vowel u — quill, quoth, 
quirk, sequel, sequence. The vowel effort that corresponds to this is 
oo or close o. 

S takes four sounds, two of which are pure aspirates — so, sh. It 
takes the sound of sh in sugar, sure, etc. Both of these sounds have 
been fully treated of in the remarks about the letter c. It also takes 
the two subvowel-sounds of z, which have been before presented. 

Exercises in the Soft Sound of S. — Sam saved and sawed six slim 
slippery saplings, and swimming, swam smack into the Swiss swamp, south 
of Smith's settlement. Amidst the mists he thrusts his fists against the posts, 
and insists he sees hosts of ghosts, and twists and "boasts of toasts. Get the 
latest amended edition of Charles Smith's Thucydides, and study the colonists, 
best interests-. 

Z— The first sound of z is found in ro-se-ate, pleas-ures, en-thu-si-ate, 
scis-sors ; was and is on Iser's praise dis-dainful rais'd ; a busy muse, 


applause and despise, the noiseless waves and closing skies; sighs, 
fantasy, wisdom, and business. 

The second sound of z is in the following words: Adhesion to 
ambro-sial inclo-sures to treasures and pleasures, take ho-siers, bra-zier's 
crosiers, brasions and treasures, for corrosions and explosions, illusions, 
confusions, conclusions, and intrusions. 

To make the second sound of z the teeth meet firmly together, the 
lips are thrown out, while the tip of the tongue rests at the base of the 
lower front teeth, bending the tongue up so as to completely line the 
upper and lower front teeth, scarcely touching them. The vocalized 
breath is forced through the small aperture and between the teeth. 
The correlative of this sound is s/i, made in the same way, but with 
unvocalized breath. 

K takes one pure aspirate-sound, which has received attention 
under the letter c. Its vocal equivalent is g hard. Crickets, keen, 
kill'd, rebuke; quaker, quirk'd, work'd, cork'd, york'd, look'd and 
smok'd, provok'd and invok'd, joked, poked, and croak'd. 

G hard and the vowel e are made with the organs in the same 
position. In the vowel-sound the vocalized breath passes out evenly 
without interruption, while in making the subvowel g and the aspi- 
rate k the expulsion is sudden and forcible. 

T takes two sounds, its real one, which is an aspirate, and its vocal 
correlative d. To make it the tongue is first pressed tightly against 
the roof of the mouth and suddenly withdrawn, expelling the breath 
forcibly. Tilt, tit-tat, with a rat-tat-tat. 

D is made in the same way. With the vocalized breath d fre- 
quently takes the sound of t. 

Exercise in Jaw-breakers. — Thou wreath'd'st and muzzl'd'st the far- 
fetched ox, and imprison'd'st in the volcanic mountains of Pop-o-cat-a-petl in 
Cot-o-pax-i. Thou prob'd'st my rack'd ribs. Thou trifl'd'st with his acts, and 
thou black'n'st and contaminated'st with his filch'd character. Thou lov'd'st 
the elves when thou heard'st and quick'n'd'st my heart's tuneful harps. Thou 
wagg'dst thy propp'd-up head, because thou thrust'dst three hundred and 
thirty-three thistles through the thick of that thumb that thou cur'dst of the 
barbed shafts. 



Aspirates continued — B; D; G; J; L; M; N; R; V; W; X — Digraphs: 

ch, sh, gh, ph, th, wh. 

B is a restrained vocal sound, made precisely as p is, only the vocal 
breath is thrown up against the lips, producing a swallowed sound. 
Compress the lips tightly and try to speak ub. Jacob hob-nob'd with 
a cobbler, dabbled in ribbons, bonbons, berries, and cabbage; the 
baboon baby babbl'd and gabbl'd its gibberish with a rub-a-dub-dub. 

D is also a restrained vocal sound, explained under the aspirate t. 
It frequently takes the sound of t at the end of words. He escap'd 
vex'd and watch'd the spic'd food with arch'd brow ; tripp'd his crisp'd 
feet; dash'd, smash'd, jump'd, and scratched like a tax'd turkey, burn'd 
and crisp'd. 

G takes three sounds. Its hard sound, and the manner of making 
it, was explained when treating of the letter c. It sometimes borrows 
the second sound of z, as in rouge. It also becomes the equivalent 
of j in many words ; to make which will be explained when treating 
of that letter. 

Sard sound of G. — A giddy gander got a cigar and gave it to 
a gangrene beggar. Goggles growled and giggled at the giddy girls, 
gloated over the gruel, till a ghastly ghost got good game and gave 
Brobdignag* green glass goggles. 

G as J. — A giant in Ghent, a genuine genius for gems and original 
magic, exaggerated the genealogy of Georgius, the logical sergeant, 
germinating genteel gingerbread just as the aborigines abjured Geneva, 
Genoa, and Germany. 

When g takes the sound of z, it occurs generally in French w r ords 
not Anglicised. 

J takes one sound, which is semi-vowel ; in reality it is a combina- 
tion of the subvowel d and the aspirate ch, as in church. The tongue 
is thrown up to obstruct the voice-sound, as in producing the d sound, 
and the forcible aspirate explosion following gives the sound of ch 
referred to. Endeavor to speak quickly the syllable jup without 
sounding the p, and the sound of j will be perfectly rendered. June, 
July, Judith; judge and Judaism joined judgment; joyfully jolting 


jugs and justice; juvenile jurymen; Jupiter; Julian joined juice and 
julep in juxtaposition. 

L takes one uniform sound ; to make which the mouth is open, and 
the lips drawn back and in at the corners ; the tongue is placed firmly 
against the front palate as in the sound of d, and held there ; while the 
vocalized breath is forced out from the sides of the tongue through 
the open mouth. In this position of the organ endeavor to speak 
the syllable eel. Lord Lemuel Lyall loved a lasslorn lady, luckless, 
languid, and luxurious ; she with blissful dalliance genteelly listened 
to his luckless, lazy, illogical lunacy. A lying, lyrical, lymphatic 
lynch, lynx-eyed and lumpish. The lawless law-maker lauded and 
laughed at the lapidary. 

M has one sound, which is partly mouth and partly nasal ; i. e. , 
the voice-sound is thrown up against the firmly closed lips, as in the 
sound of b, but is thrown back and out through the nose. Mail maim'd 
the main-mast, mostly making malignant music. Majestical mediocrity 
meditates mean mechanical measure, modified by meek menace. Mer- 
ciful mercurial metamorphosis mastered the methodistic meter. 

N takes one sound, which is also partly mouth and partly nasal ; 
but the vocal breath is stopped by the tongue being firmly placed 
against the roof of the mouth, as when making the sounds of d and e, 
and thrown back through the nasal passage. Nineteen nippers, non- 
concurrent, non-essential, and nonsensically nice, nipped noisily at 
ninepins; a novel novice, notable with nosegays, nourished naughty 
nurslings in nymph-like nudity. 

N before g and k becomes a purely nasal sound. The end of the 
tongue is placed against the lower front teeth, as in producing the 
sound of h and g hard, while the back part is thrown up so as to 
prevent any sound from, passing out through the mouth, forcing it 
all through the nose. Kanting, banking, cranking, singing, sighing, 
smiling, dying, crying, flying, flanking, winking, waking, sleeping. 

B. — To make the first sound of r the teeth are nearly closed, the 
lips thrown out, and the tongue drawn back and up. In this position 
of the organs try to speak the syllable er, and the desired sound will 
be obtained. When r occurs after a vowel it takes this smooth sound. 
Floor, more, word, sword, gourd. 

The second sound of r is rough or trilled. To make it the organs 
are in the same position as when required to produce the smooth 
sound ; but a more forcible expulsion of vocal air becomes necessary 
to cause the vibration of the tongue required to produce this trill, or 
rolling sound. 



Trill the r. The romping, ragged rascal, rash, raspy, reaching, 
rearing, and recreant, roamed in riotous revolt. Ribaldry, reviving 
rhapsody, rained rich rockets, riddles, ribbons, and rocks. The royal 
roofless rooster roared in the rookery, and the rough ruffian ruined 
the Rubicon. 

Notk,— Many poisons have a very affected and pernicious habit of making the letter r 
silent in all the words they use. For barn they say bahn; for ioxm, fahm ; for harm, hahm, etc. 
Some have a still more exquisite fancy, and pronounce bird as though spelled bu-yed, sounding 
the i like Short «; first, fu-ycst ; firs, fu-ys, etc. 

V. — This sound is made in the same manner as is/, but with vocal 
breath. Vainglorious vagabonds value valentines with voluptuous 
vanity. Vampires, vapors, and varnish vanish and vent venom, 
viperous, virile, and valid. 

W has two sounds. The first is a close vowel-sound of oo, as in 
ooze, preceded by a slight aspirate, giving a wavy sound that oo does 
not possess. It takes this sound before vowels. The warden washed 
the wall, wisely warming the water with wonderful wood, wormy and 

The second sound is a pure aspirate. To make it place the lips 
as though you were going to whistle, blowing a short breath through 
the lips. It usually takes this sound before h. Which, whiggish, 
what, whimsical, whip-stock, whooping, whistle. 

X (g z, k s) is in fact a character representing four sounds. It 
takes two sounds, a subvocal and an aspirate, both of which are a 
union of two sounds. The subvocal takes the sound of g hard and 
of z (gz), while the aspirates (ks) are but the correlatives. As a 
particular description of the manner of making these sounds has been 
already given, it will only be necessary to unite them — gz, sub vowels; 
k s, aspirates. 

At the beginning of words x takes the sound of z. In such cases 
it is a vocal sound, and the g sound is silent; as Xenia, Xenophon. 
Should the real sound of the letter be pronounced, it would be exactly 
as though spelled Gzenophon, Gzenia, having the same sound that it 
does in exist, exile. It will be well to remember this analysis to pre- 
vent any stumbling. 

When x is the first letter of the word the g sound is silent, and the 
words pronounced as though written Zenia, Zenophon. The xanthic 
xystus, with xylotile Xylopia, received a xylographer with xylites 
xylophilan. Xerxes and Xenophon from Xenia. 

Words in which x takes the sub vowel -sound: Exalt the exactor 
and exaggerate the examination with exactitude, and exasperate the 
examiner with exotic exultation. 


It takes the hs sound in the following : Extort the exquisite expert 
and extinguish the expectant explainer; extirpate the extorter in 
extemporal exegesis. 

Such words as the following sound as though spelled with the word 
commencing with the letter x — play upon xes: Charles X., x-king of 
France, was xtravagantly xtoll'd, but is xceedingly xecrated. He 
xperienced xtraordinary xcellences ; he was xcellent in xternals, but 
xtrinsic in xtasy; he was xtatic in xpression, xtreme in xcitement, 
and xtraordinary in xtempore xpression. He was xpatriated for his 
xcesses, and to xpiate his xtravagance was xcluded, and xpired in 


Ch. — The manner of producing this sound was described under the 
letter j, of which it is the aspirate correspondent. It takes the sound 
of sh in some words, as in chaise. In words derived from the ancient 
languages ch is generally hard, like k; as, chemistry, Chaldee, Mel- 
chisedec. If we reverse the order of this combination in its soft 
sound, and prolong the c, we get a certain significant expression of 
hate and disgust. Snakes and geese use this sound when irritated 
or alarmed; and even men have been known to express themselves 
by a vigorous use of these sounds. Persons, however, who hiss this 
language seem to know intuitively how to utter it without any ex- 
planation here. But to return and discuss the regular English sound 
of this digraph. There is a very useful agent, for the convenience of 
mankind, which has been invented since snakes, geese, and men were 
created. If you wish to hear how clearly and rapidly it utters this 
sound listen to the locomotive when it is just put in motion — ch, ch, 
ch, ch, ch, etc. 

Sh has also been described, as it is the aspirate correlative of the 
second sound of z. 

Ph usually takes the sound of/ — Phil-o-mel, Phi-pher. According 
to some lexicographers, in the words nephew and Stephens, they take 
the sound of v. In some words the h is silent — nap/i-tha. 

Oh (ough). This combination can hardly be called a digraph, as it 
has no sound specifically its own. At the beginning of words the h is 
silent, and at the end of words both letters are generally silent. In 
some words it takes the sound of/, as in laugh and cough. In others, 
when preceded by ou, it takes the sound of w, as in furlough — the ugh is 
silent. In through it takes the close sound of oo; and in thorough the 
entire ough is sounded like short u. Altogether it is a tough combi- 
nation of letters to rely upon, but perhaps a good arrangement for 


suggesting a guess; or, what would be more satisfactory perhaps, it 
gives one the freedom of choice when it occurs in proper names. 
Greenough, Clough, Vaughn, Brough, Brougham. 

Th has its two sounds, aspirate and voice. These sounds are made 
by placing the end of the tongue against the edge of the upper front 
teeth. To make the aspirate-sound, as in thin, the breath is simply 
blown through. In the vocal sound, as in this, the vocal breath is 
blown through, making a buzzing sound. This, those, that, them, 
thine. ' 

Of ich we have already treated under the letter w. 


Articulation — Gymnastics of the Voice — Exercises eor Running the 
Gauntlet — The "Leader" Exercise. 

The great obstacle to articulation lies in the pupil not being able 
to articulate aspirate and sub vowel-sounds, particularly when they 
come together in one syllable, or follow each other in different syllables. 
Articulation generally is so poor that the following table is inserted 
for the purpose of affording gymnastic exercises. Let no one neglect 
this practice. Let them be pronounced and spelled. In classes, one 
pupil may pronounce and the next one spell, and the speller pronounce 
the next word for spelling, and so on around the class. Each one will 
then discover in what condition his or her articulating powers are. 

Remember, exactness and grace go together in other gymnastic 
exercises — fencing, riding, boxing — so do not slight these nobler 
gymnastics of the voice. 

Exercises for Articulation. 

A-rm, o.-rm'd, a.-rms, a-rm'sf, si-rm'dst] bu-rrc, \>\i-rn'd, ou-rnt, u-rns, ea-rw'stf, 
ea-rn , d l st; ha-rp, ha-rp'd, ha-rps; hea-rse, fea-r'stf, bu-rste; hea-W, hea-rts; 
ha-rfst; OT-b'd, pro-fr 'd st; a-ble, trou-dl'd, trou-bU d st, trou-bles, trou-bVst; 
br-and; Ti-bs, rib-V st; ipro-bes. 

A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call. It was the severest storm of the 

no, but the masts stood through the gale. 
Can-die, han-dl'd, can-dies, ion-dVst; dr-ove; dee-ds; bvea-dth, brea-dths; 
ree-fd, rw-fd'st; jtf-ame, tv'\-fid, tri-Jl'st, tri-Jles; /r-amej lau-ghs, \a\x-gKst; 


wa-jft, wa-/fe, wa-ffst; cli-Jfs; brag-ged, bvag-g'dst; gl-ow, bag-gled, man-gles, 
man-gl'st; gr-axe; ba-ck'd; un-cte, tin-kUd, truc-kles, truc-kl'st, true- k U d st ; 
blac-ken, blac-ken d, blac-Aews, b\&c-ke?i st, biac-keridst; cr-oney; thin-As, 
thin-A's/; e-lbe, bu-lb'd, bu-lbs; bo-ld, bo-lds, bo-ld'st; e-lf, e-lfs, de-lft ware; 
hu-lge; mi-Ik, mi-Ik' d, si-Iks, mu-lct, m\i-lcts; e-lm, v?be-lm 1 d, whe-£ras; ia-lVn. 

"Fair ladies masked are roses in their buds, 
Dismask'd their damask sweet commixture shown, 
Are angels veiling clouds, or roses blown." 

His acts being seven ages. The acts of the apostles. This act more than 
all other acts of the legislature laid the axe at the root of the evil. On either 
side an ocean exists. On neither side a notion exists. "When Ajax strives some 
rock's vast weight to throw. Then rustling, crackling, crashing thunder down. 
The magistrates ought to prove the charge. The magistrates sought to prove 
the charge. 

Nature can only lay the foundation ; the superstructure, with all its orna- 
ments, is the work of education. Although those noble gifts of mind, without 
which no one can become an eloquent speaker, are from nature's God, yet 
articulation, the elements, quantity, etc., are to be learned. 

He proposed an amicable adjustment of all difficulties. We must fight it 
through. It must be so. After the most straitest sect. This was the most 
unkindcst cut. 

HesL-lth, bea-lths; ento-mb'd; ~Ku-mph-rey ; sdte-mpt, atte-mpts; to-mbs, 
euto-mb 1 st; a-nd, ba-nds, se-ncfst; ra-nge, ra-ng'd; thi-nk, ihi-nks, ihi-nk'st; 
se-nt, wa-nfstf, wa-nts; fi-ws; fli-ncA, ni-nch'd; wi-nc'd; pi-gs, vta-gst; bed-ged; 
ba-ng'd; so-ngs; stre-ngth, stre-ngths; pl-uck, rip-pled, riip-ples,Ti])-prst', pr-ay; 
c\i-ps, ni-pst; be-rb, ba-rb'd, be-rbs, ba-rVst, ba-rb'dst; ba-rd, ba-rds, bea-rdst; 
su-rf, wha-r/'o?; b\x-rgh, bxi-rghs; ba-rge, u-rg'd; ha-?' A-, ba-rk'd, a-rcs, ba-rk'st. 
ba-rk'cTst] sna-rl, bu-rl'd, sna-rls, sna-rfst, sna-rl' <? st. 

By indefatigable study and long-continued practice the renowned orators 
of antiquity became almost perfect in articulation. They were unwilling that 
even a single error should escape their lips. This is one of the great secrets 
of their immortality. They knew that the faculty of speech is the power 
of giving sounds to thought. They were correct in their views. 

He was incapable of a mean or questionable action. He was amiable, 
respectable, formidable, unbearable, intolerable, unmanageable, terrible. 
"An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 
That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek 
'To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"' 

Do not say 

-the Turky woke. 

That bright dream wazis las; 
He woke to hear the sentry sriek 

"Too arms! they come! the Greek the Greek!" 

Articulation is the cutting out and shaping, in a perfectly distinct 
and appropriate manner, with the organs of speech all the simple 


ami compound sounds "which our twenty-six letters represent. It is 
to the oar what a fair handwriting is to the eye, and relates, of course, 
to the Bounds, not to the names, of both vowels and consonants. It 
depends on the exact positions and correct operations of the vocal 
powers, and on the ability to vary them with rapidity, precision, and 
effect. Thus articulation is purely an intellectual act, and belongs 
not to any of the brute creation. 

Be very particular in pronouncing the jaw or voice-breakers, and 
cease not till you can give every sound fully, correctly, and distinctly. 
If your vocal powers are well exercised by faithful practice on the 
more difficult combinations, they will acquire a facility of movement, 
a precision of action, a flexibility, grace, and force truly surprising. 

The awful cruelties, barbarisms, horrors, crimes, massacres, and conflagra- 
tions of civil wars, regardless of rights or wrongs, wreak rough, wrathful 
revenge on your shrill-shrieking daughters. The forest's shades and the 
fortresses' foreheads faced the forecastle's forked form ; thatched the theft and 
thaw'd the thick thimble, thwack athwart the thyroid. 

Self-possession, under all circumstances, is a most desirable attain- 
ment. Kunning the gauntlet will test it. We have all heard of the 
practice that prevails among some tribes of Indians called "running 
tJie gauntlet." A company is arranged in two rows, a few yards apart, 
and a prisoner is obliged to run between the ranks. Each throws his 
hatchet at him as he passes, and if he escapes this ordeal without 
being killed he is permitted to live without further hazard. In the 
important exercise here recommended, each member of the class, 
after making some proficiency, memorizes and recites a strong and 
powerful sentence, and the others try to put out or break down the 
one that is speaking, by all sorts of remarks, sounds, looks, and 
actions, though without touching him ; and the gauntlet-speaker girds 
up the loins of his mind and endeavors to keep the fountain of feeling 
higher than the streams, and so long as he does so he is safe ; but alas 
for him that shrinks into himself and yields to his opponents. 

Any one who can recite the following with expression, under the 
noise, confusion, and jests of the class, will have achieved a great 
success : 

" Hast thou, in feverish and unquiet sleep, — 
Dreamt — th't some merciless demon of the air 
Rais'd thee aloft, — and held thee by the hair 
Over the brow — of a down-lookmg steep, 
Gaping, below, into a chasm — so deep 
Th't, by the utmost straining of thine eye, 
Thou canst no resting--p\aca descry; 


Not e'en a bush — to save thee, shouldst thou sweep 

Adown the black descent; that then the hand 

Suddenly parted thee, and left thee there, 

Holding — but by finger-ti^s, the bare 

And jagged ridge above, that seems as sand 

To crumble 'neath. thy touch ? — If so, I deem 

Th't thou hast had rather an ugly dream." 

The following will be easier : 

"Echoed from earth a hollow roar 
Like ocean on the midnight shore ; 
A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled, 
The solid ground beneath them reel'd; 
In dust sank roof and battlement, 
Like webs the giant walls were rent; 
Eed, broad, before his startled gaze, 
The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. 
Still swelled the plague — the flame grew pale ; 
Burst from the clouds the charge of hail ; 
"With arrowy keenness, iron weight, 
Down poured the ministers of fate ; 
Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed, 
Covered with death the boundless field." 

" Eoll proudly on ! brave blood is with thee sweeping, 

Poured out by sons of thine, 
"When sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping 

Like thee, victorious Ehine ! 
Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never ; 

Sound on, by hearth and shrine ; 
Sing through the hills that thou art free forever ; 

Lift up thy voice, Ehine ! " 

Vir. How! is it something can't be told 
At once ? Speak out, boy ! Ha ! your looks are loaded 
"With matter. Is 't so heavy that your tongue 
Can not unburden them ? Tour brofher left 
The camp on duty yesterday — hath aught 
Happened to him ? Did he arrive in safety ? 
Is he safe ? Is he well ? 

In the leader exercises one reads until he or she makes a mistake 
in articulation, the entire class being critics for the occasion. The 
moment the leader makes a mistake the next one takes up the word, 
repronounces it, and proceeds until he is dethroned by an error, and so 
on around the class. This is an exciting exercise, and requires all to 
have their eyes and ears open and their tongues supple. All must 
be careful to mind the "stops." 


Kmt.i ttfli 1. Cicero and Demosthenes. — An orator, addressing himself 
more to the passions, naturally has much passionate ardor; whilst another, 
ssing an elevation of sfyk and majestic gravity, is never coW, though he 
has not the same vehemence. In this respect do these great orators differ. 
tfhenes — abounds in concise sublimity ; Cicero, — in diffuseness: the former, 
on account of his destroying and consuming everything by his violence, rapidity, 
strength, and vehemence, may be compared to a hurricane or thunderbolt; the 
latter, to a wide extended conflagration, spreading in every direction with a 
great, constant, and irresistible flame. 

Exercise 2. The Power of Imagination. 
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet 
Are of imagination — all compact : 
One — sees more devils — than vast hell can hold ; 
That — is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen's beauty— in a brow of Egypt. 
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven — to earth, from earth — to heaven ; 
And, as imagination — bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet s pen 
Forms them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name." 

Exercise 3. The Human Voice. — Among all the wonderful varieties 
of artificial instruments which discourse excellent music, where shall we find 
one that can be compared to the human voice? And where can we find 
an instrument comparable to the human mind, upon whose stops the real 
musician, the poet, and the orator sometimes lays his hands, and avails himself 
of the entire compass of its magnificent capacities ? Oh ! the length, the breadth, 
the height, and the depth of music and eloquence 1 

Exercise 4. Self-sacrificing Ambition. — We need a loftier ideal to 
nerve us for heroic lives. To know and feel our nothingness without regretting 
it; to deem fame, riches, personal happiness, but shadows of which human 
good is the substance ; to welcome pain, privation, ignominy, so that the sphere 
of human knowledge, the empire of virtue, be thereby extended: such is the 
soul's temper in which the heroes of the coming age shall be cast. When the 
stately monuments of mightiest conquerors shall have become shapeless and 
forgotten ruins, the humble graves of earth's Howards and Frys shall still be 
freshened by the tears of fondly admiring millions, and the proudest epitaph 
shall be the simple entreaty, 

" Write me as one who loved his fellow-men." 



Accent — Inflection^Emphasis — Cadence. 

Accent takes its place in the orthoepy of words. Inflection gives 
true expression to words. Emphasis defines their value in a sentence. 

By accent we divide the sounds in a word into syllables (so called), 
and by giving more stress to one particular combination than to the 
others we enunciate the word properly. 

The rudimental principles of accent and emphasis, and the manner 
of producing them, were given in the exercises for the vowel-sounds. 
We have been very particular in directing attention to the distinctive 
characteristics of the vowel, subvowel, and aspirate-sounds, and to 
their distinctive utterance in all words wherein they are sounded. 

Words are made up of one or more syllables ; but if we pronounce 
all the syllables with equal stress of voice, the result, so far as sound 
is concerned, will be that no word has been articulated. Therefore 
accent is the discreting element of words, and plays the important 
part of directing their pronunciation, and giving beauty and individ- 
uality to their proportions. 

Some words, meaning very different things, are spelled alike, and 
distinguished by their accentuation alone; that is, the stress is 
placed on one syllable in the one and on another syllable in the 
other; as, Au-gust, the name of a month, and au-gust, an adjective 
expressing something grand or majestic. So also many other words 
differ in meaning when used to represent different parts of speech. 

The pronunciation of the English language, like most others, is 
arbitrary, and, like other things, is exposed to the caprices of fashion 
and taste, and not unfrequently to vulgarism ; but its most deadly foe 
is affectation. Provincialisms break in upon uniform rules; and all 
combined leave but a very uncertain clew to direct us in the use of 
accent. Orthoepists disagree, and it is not the province of this work 
to decide. What is required by us is that on whatever syllable the 
accent is placed it shall be clearly, distinctly, and musically rendered. 

Accent embraces three functions — Stress, Time, and Pitch — which 
we will illustrate as follows : 


Accent denotes pitch, or the stepping down or up from a note or 
halt-note, as the case may be. 

Pitch and time may both be represented in the word ac-cent so as 
to correspond to one note and a half-note in music, the accented sylla- 
ble taking the whole note. The following will make it plain : 


The forcible prolongation of pitch on a particular syllable is called 
accent. Any one who is well acquainted with the musical scale, 
though never having practiced with reference to speech, may readily 
ascertain this upward and downward intonation of the tones and 
semitones by catching the note of the vowel -sound, and striking its 
corresponding tone or key on some instrument. The aspirates have 
nothing to do with the music of the voice. 

Rule. — The accented syllable should be made more forcible in 
utterance and of greater prolongation than other syllables in the 
word, and on either a higher or lower pitch of voice. 

It will be well to recall what has been before frequently said about 

the functions of the vowels as the conveying element of the word. 

The following arrangement of syllables will indicate the ranges of 

voice when properly accentuating a word : 

/ a \ . 
.cent. /Cent. / Mion. 

Ac/ Ac/ X u X 

Any combination of sounds that represent distinct ideas, though 
they be monosyllables, may be said to have accent. But accent is 
more clearly discernible in words of two or more syllables ; for it is 
the thread with which we unite letters and syllables into words. 

There have been some critical discussions on the subject of the 
change of pitch which accent requires. Sheridan, in an elaborate 
treatise on accent, declares it to be simple force on a syllable, and 
likens it to "the hard and soft taps on a drum-head," which are 
exactly on the same pitch, the more forcible tap producing the louder 
sound. Accent can be produced exactly in this w T ay, and in our 
rudimentary practice of accent on the vowel-sounds we have so given 
it. But to say that the accented and unaccented syllables in words 
are always on the same pitch is to make a statement that can not be 
true, and which must have arisen from an uncultivated ear. 

So little attention has been given to the cultivation and detection 
of the delicate shades of voice-sound that the ear is rarely able to 


catch and discriminate closely the short and delicate steps which 
a cultivated voice takes in the accentuation of a word of several 

Sheridan further says that the difference between our accent and 
that of the Greek depends upon its seat, which always occurs on a 
vowel in the latter, while ours may be either on a vowel or a conso- 
nant, and that the reason why the Greek accent was placed over the 
vowel w T as "that, as their accent consisted in a change of notes, they 
could not be distinctly expressed but by the vowels, in uttering which 
the passage is entirely clear for the issue of the voice without inter- 
ruption or stop, as in pronouncing the consonants." 

But the fact that consonants follow a vowel in a syllable should 
make no difference in the change of notes, for the vowel-sound ceases 
as soon as it has performed its mission ; and it should be sounded fully 
and musically, whether it ends a syllable or is followed by a conso- 
nant. This surely can in no way effect a change of note, for the 
sound has to be commenced anew, so that the next vowel-sound can 
take another note just as easily as it can resume the same sound. 
Besides, the musical effect of speech depends much upon the purity 
of the vow T el-sound, and the modulation of voice which the change 
of pitch in accent gives. 

Bead the following with due attention to accent and articulation. 
Do not leave out any letter that is not silent, but give the accented 
ones their time and pitch : 

DEATH OF MORRIS. By Walter Scott. 

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of M&cgregor 
commanded that the hostage, exchanged for her husband's safety, should he 
brought into her presence. I believe her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch 
out of her sight, for fear of the consequences ; but if it was so, their humane 
precaution only postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, 
a wretch, already half-dead with terror, in whose agonized features I recog- 
nized, to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaintance Morris. 

He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an effort to clasp her knees, 
from which she drew back as if his touch had been pollution; so that all he 
could do, in token of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem 
of her plaid. I never heard entreaties — for life poured forth with such agony 
of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, 
as on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him — eloquent; and with cheeks as 
pale as ashes, — hands compressed in agony, — eyes that seemed to be taking 
their last look of all mortal objects, he protested, with the deepest oaths, his 
total ignorance of any design on the life of Eob Eoy, — whom he swore he 
loved and honored as his own soul. In the inconsistency of his terror, he said 


he was but the agent of others; and he muttered the name of Rashleigh. He 
prayed but for life; for life — he would give all he had in the world; — it was 
hut life he asked; — life, if it were to be prolonged under tortures and priva- 
tions; — he asked only breath, though it should be drawn in the damps of the 
lowest caverns of their hills. 

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing and contempt, with which 
the wife of Macgregor regarded this wretched petitioner — for the poor boon 
of existence. 

■• 1 could have bid. you live" she said, "had life been to you the same weary 
and wasting burden — that it is to me — that it is to every noble — and generous 
mind. But you, — wretch ! you could creep through the world unaffected by its 
various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly-accumulating masses of 
crime and sorrow; — you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded 
are betrayed, — while nameless — and birthless villai?is tread on the neck of the 
brave and long-descended ; — you could enjoy yourself, like a butchers dog in the 
shambles, — battening on garbage, while the slaughter of the brave went on 
around you! This enjoyment you shall not live to partake of; you shall die, — 
base dog, and that before yon cloud has passed over the sun." 

She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of whom 
seized upon the prostrate suppliant and hurried him to the brink of a cliff 
which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadful — cries 
that fear ever uttered; — I may well term them — dreadful, for they haunted 
my sleep for years afterward. As the murderers, — or executioners, call them 
as you will, dragged him along, he recognized me, even in that moment of 
horror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, 
" O Mr. Osbaldistone, save me ! — save me ! ; ' 

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle that, although in momentary 
expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak in his behalf; but, as 
might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The 
victim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a 
plaid, tied it around his neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some 
part of his dress. Half-naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the 
lake, there about twelve feet deep, — drowning his last death-shriek with a loud 
halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony — 
was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark -blue waters of 
the lake ; and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an 
instant, to guard lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was 
attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been 
securely bound ; the victim sank without effort ; the ivaters, which his fall had 
disturbed, settled calmly over him ; and the unit of that life for which he had 
pleaded so strongly was forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. 

Inflections embrace the concrete or continuous movements of 
voice on a single word ; but cadence has reference to the fall or 
proper closing of sentences. The cadence which is most pleasing to 
the ear is the fall of a triade, or regular gradation of three notes, 
from the prevalent pitch of voice. Therefore these two movements 


of voice should never be confounded. Cadence never occurs properly 
in the middle of a sentence, nor should a sentence ever end with a 
feeble and depressed utterance. All the slender characteristics of 
voice are embraced in inflections. 

Inflection and emphasis are closely related ; in many respects they 
seem to mean so nearly the same thing that it is quite difficult to treat 
them as separate subjects. We can scarcely give a decided inflection 
to a word without its becoming, in consequence, more or less emphatic. 
Nor can a word receive important emphasis without taking an inflec- 
tion. Yet each has its own specific function, notwithstanding both 
are required to give a full expression of the thought. 

While treating upon accent, we demonstrated that it has its own 
specific mission; which is to give character to a word, or rather 
individuality, by throwing more stress and prolongation on one syl- 
lable than on others, the accented syllable being uttered on a different 
pitch of voice from the rest. 

Inflection gives character and expression to the thought by point- 
ing out all the delicate shades of meaning contained in the word. 
The true meaning of words, from the lips of the person pronouncing 
them, can never be misunderstood if the proper inflections are given — 
whether of pleasure or contempt, fact or irony, love or hate, truth or 

Inflections are the subtle exponents of the state of feeling expressed 
in speech. 

It has been said that human speech was invented for the purpose 
of hiding our thoughts. This statement need not be taken as correct 
by any means ; for, although human speech conveys many falsehoods 
which we receive and believe, it is only so because we have not learned 
to hear correctly. When we have learned what certain intonations 
express, we can not well accept a falsehood from human lips. Truth 
and falsehood can not be represented alike by vocality. Each uses 
unconsciously its own tell-tale inflection, for each has a way of 
expression peculiar to itself. Our business is to learn how things 
express themselves. (See Gesture and Deportment.) 

The modifications of inflections are four; viz., the rising, falling, 
the wave or circumflex, and the intense monotone. These will be 
marked in the following examples by these signs : - — — - — - ^~^ 

The rising inflection turns the voice upward on a word or sentence ; 
as, Are you going West ? All direct questions that can be answered 
by yes or no take this inflection. Indeed, nearly all simple questions 
take it. 


In addressing individuals or an audience use the rising inflection; 
as, "Miss Smith;" "Mr. Brown;" " Ladies and gentlemen." 

" Fellow-citizens, I am here to defend this cause." In this example 
the sense is continuous to the close of the sentence. But if we say, 
1 ' Fellow-citizens, I am here to defend this cause," the falling inflection 
before the sense is complete makes a meaningless expression. "I am 
here to defend this cause" sounds as if a new sentence had been com- 
menced. Besides, the falling inflection used in addressing a person 
is expressive of contempt, more or less, according to the amount 
of circumflex used in the downward pointing of the voice; as, "Mr. 
Brown — Mr. Brown — Mr. Brown." If the desire is to express con- 
tempt for persons, then this inflection is appropriate ; but never give 
the falling inflection to a name you desire to present respectfully. 


"Friends, Komans, countrymen! Lend me — your ears. I come to bury 
Csesar, not to praise him." 

" But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
"What was thy delighted measure? " 

" Kind friends, at your call 
I 'm come here to sing. 
Or rather to talk, of my woes." 

" Fathers, we once again are met in council." 

^ -v 

" Air. Chairman — I trust, that I shall he indulged in a few reflections on 
the danger of permitting the conduct — upon which it has been my painful 
duty to animadvert — to pass without a solemn expression of the disapprobation 
of this house." 

"Falstaff. Master Brook, you shall hear. As good luck would have it, 
comes in one Mrs. Page, gives her intelligence of Ford's approach, and by her 
invention, and Ford's wife's direction, — I was conveyed into a buck-basket. 

" Brook. A buck-basket ? 

" Fal. Yea ;— buck-basket." 

Great care should be observed lest in reading the voice acquire 
the habit of taking the full falling inflection in the middle of a sen- 
tence. Such a practice produces a very monotonous effect, and makes 
it difficult for the listener to follow the chain of thought. Many 
speakers fall into this error in their endeavor to obtain a solemn, 
impressive manner. Another equally pernicious habit is a sort of 
rainbow style, or reading on a curve. This is equally solemn, and 
quite as somnolent as the other — is much employed in reading hymns 
and poetry generally. 


, bo dreams of car e arQ 
d\*& °^ous Noughts, that ^ a tJ H\ 
V^arxns around t iee ^.4. 

The voice here rises in the middle of the lines, and falls at each 
end. It is well to respect the ear and good sense of an audience ; and 
the above style of reading any composition can only be used with 
propriety and effect when the speaker wishes to soothe listeners into 
a quiet slumber. It is meaningless, and of course can excite no 
attention. The proper use of inflections is to give expression to the 
thought. Affectation has its own inflection, which is easily detected ; 
therefore beware of the misuse of these delicate and truthful expo- 
nents of thought and feeling. 

Eules for the Fatjjng Inflection. — Falling inflection is a 
turning of the voice downward on a word, lower than it began. It is 
always heard in the answer to a question; as, "Yes; I shall go next 
week." Also in affirmative sentences; as, "I shall do so." And in 
the language of authority; as, "Back to thy punishment, false 
fugitive, and to thy speed add wings." Also of terror; as, "The 
light burns blue." In the surprise of indignation; as, "Go, false 
fellow! and let me never see your face again." In contempt; as, 
"I had as lief not be as live to be in awe — of such a thing — as 
myself." And of exclamation; as, "O heaven! O earth!" And 
always in the final pause (not the interrogative form) where the sense 
and sentence are completed. All general rules have some exceptions. 

Examples in Rising and Falling Inflections. 

"Are they ministers of Christ? Are they Jews?'' "They "are." 
" Did you not speak tolt? " "My lord, I "did." 
"Armed, say "you?" "Armed, my lord." 

In conversation people are nearly always right in their use of in- 
flections. In reading or reciting they are usually wrong. Therefore 
it is well to train the ear to colloquial language by close attention; 
also to cultivate the voice by breaking up sentences wherein difficul- 
ties occur, putting them in colloquial form for the practice of inflec- 
tion. They who do this will soon see how foolish and unnatural has 
been their use of what should be delicate exponents of feeling. Of 
course it will be understood that there is a great difference between 


the delicate turning of the voice on a word in a sentence and the full 
falling cadence of a closing period. 

On. When or in its disjunctive sense connects words and clauses 
of an interrogatory character, the rising inflection occurs before it 
and the falling after it. "Will you speak — or be silent?" "What 
prompted you, love — or hate?" This implies that the question can 
not be answered by yes or no, but demands an explanation. 

When or is used in a conjunctive form, and can be replied to by 
yes or no, it is usually followed by the rising inflection. "Shall you 
go next week — or this?" 

Few examples are given here because it is desired that the learner 
furnish specimens under all the rules, and point them, for the criti- 
cism of the class or teacher. It is only by such close analysis that 
proper attention can be directed to this most important branch of 
reading. The following exercises may be rendered under the rules 
above given : 


Will. And good even to you, sir. 

Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, 
prithee, — be covered. How old are you, friend? 

Will. Five and twenty, sir. 

Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William? 

Will. William, sir. 

Touch. A fair name. Wast horn i' the forest here? 

Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. 

Touch. Thank God ! a good answer. Art rich ? 

Will. Faith, sir, so so. 

Touch. So so is good, very good, — very excellent good : and yet it is not ; it 
is hut so so. Art thou wise? 

Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 

Touch. Why, thou sayest well. I do now rememher a saying, " The fool 
doth think he is wise; hut the toise man knows himself to he a fool." The 
heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his 
lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made 
to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid? 

Will. I do, sir. 

Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned? 

Will. No, sir. 

Touch. Then learn this of me: to have is to have; for it is a figure in 
rhetoric that drink, — being poured out of a cup into a glass, — by filling one doth 
empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you are 
not ipse, for I am he. 

Will. Which he, sir? 

Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, 
abandon — which is in the vulgar leave — the society — which in the boorish is 


company — of this female — which in the common is woman; which together 
is abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy 
better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, — make thee away, — translate 
thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, 
or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o'errun 
thee with policy ; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways : therefore tremble 
and depart. 

Aud. Do, good William. 
Will. God rest you merry, sir. 

The importance of rendering the inflections correctly will be ap- 
parent by reading the following exercise with the rising inflection : 

" The man who is in the daily use of ardent spirits, if he does not become 
a drunkard, is in danger of losing his health and character. 

It will be seen that using the rising inflection on the words marked 
for emphasis implies that the man must become a drunkard in order 
to preserve his health and happiness. If rendered with the down- 
ward inflection, the true idea will be conveyed. 

Rule. — When two words are connected, expressing an alternative, 
the first one takes the rising, the second the falling inflection. Swift — 
or slow; rough — or smooth; smooth — or rough. Live — or die; sur- 
vive — or perish. But when spoken in an interrogative manner the 
inflection is changed, the first word taking the falling and the second 
the rising inflection ; as, "Swift — or sbivf Good — or bad?" etc. 

The monotone or intense forward inflection indicates that the 
voice is kept nearly on the same pitch or tone for several successive 
words. This sometimes occurs in rapid expression, and sometimes 
gives marked effect in grave and solemn passages. "But hark! 
through the fast flashing lightning of war;" "But that I am forbid 
to tell the secrets of my prison-house;" "Haste me to know it, that 
I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may 
sweep to my revenge." 

There is much abuse of this inflection, many persons trying to 
render whole paragraphs without the least regard to emphasis or 
the sentiment of the piece, taking for granted that a low continuous 
tone expresses all of gravity. A greater mistake could not be made. 
Many actors, indeed almost without exception, in playing the part 
of the ghost in "Hamlet," assume what they probably consider a 
sepulchral tone of voice. For what reason they take this liberty it 
is hard to imagine. Is it a style peculiar to ghosts? Who can tell 
us? Or did the senior Hamlet talk in that way. 




The Circumflex, or Wave — Emphasis — Stress and Quantity — 
Khetorical Pauses. 

The circumflex, or wave, is a union of the rising and falling inflec- 
tions, sometimes on one syllable and sometimes on several. Sneers, 
taunts, gibes, and reproachful expressions have an accentuation pecul- 
iarly their own, and partake largely of circumflections. 

What we mean does not depend so much on what we say as on the 
manner in which we say it. The modifying influences of accentuation, 
inflection, and emphasis change the intention or whole idea, making 
it something else. Whether we will or not, whatever is uttered under 
the pressure of strong feeling expresses itself exactly. If the same 
words are uttered under different circumstances, with reversed or 
changed inflection, indicating a different state of mind, they will 
mean something else. Therefore we must bear in mind that nature, 
true to herself, stamps her meaning in all outward expression. 

The question arises here then, of what use is the study of elocution 
if nature is the best and only reliable teacher? As our education in 
letters is obtained from books, and we become fixed in the habit of 
using the letter without the spirit, we neglect giving such attention 
to the manner as nature, the great master, prompts. The true elocu- 
tionist, like the teacher of any art, can not go beyond the expression 
of nature and give any degree of satisfaction. All that he can do is 
to gather facts by close and critical study, and embody them in such 
rules and distinctions as will place the pupil on the right road to 
knowledge. If we take the following examples and simply read them 
without taking into consideration the spirit in which they are uttered, 
we will not convey their meaning. 

If we were to say candidly to some persons, ' ' You are very wise 
men, deeply learned in the truth; we, weak, contemptible, mean per- 
sons ;" it would indicate an appreciation of merits in them far superior 
to our own. But if we use the waves of voice that express sarcasm 
we give just the reverse of what the simple definition of the words 


implies: that they are self-conceited, and entertain a poor opinion of ws; 
as, " You are very wise men, deeply learned in the truth; we, weak, 
contemptible, mean persons." The Queen of Denmark, in reproving 
her son Hamlet for his conduct toward his stepfather, whom she 
married shortly after the murder of the king, her husband, says to 
him emphatically, "Hamlet, you have your father much offended." 
He replies, with the circumflex that indicates a taunt, "Madam — 
you — have my father much offended/' While she meant that he had 
offended her second husband, he, using the same words, flings the 
reproach upon her that she had proven untrue to his own father ; thus 
endeavoring to give expression to his suspicions and plant the dagger 
of remorse in her bosom. 

Art, studied appreciatively, adds beauty, ease, and gracefulness to 
the promptings of nature, giving greater power for good or evil. Yet 
there is a distinction that must be made w T hen art is studied and 
applied to evil purposes or to deceive ; then it is leveled to trickery. 
But wdien it is sought for ennobling objects, for higher achievements, 
it becomes the handmaid of progress. Study it always in behalf of 
the latter, and you will help to bless the world. 

Close and critical attention to these delicate slides of voice is all- 
important. In speech, the right or wrong rendering of these gives a 
pervading character to the whole delivery, and the grace and refined 
ease of polished society is much indebted to the correct expression 
of inflections. Do not fear that time will be lost in the study and 
practice of these essential elements in good reading and speaking. 
The following examples may now be rendered : 

" Moneys — is your suit. 

"What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 

Hath a dog money ? — is it possible 

A cur can lend — three thousand ducats?" 
" "What says that fool of a Hagar's offspring? " 
" "What ! — can so young a thorn begin to prick ? " 
" How like a fawning publican he looks ? " 
" They tell us to be moderate; but they — they are to revel in profusion ! " 

"Then Satan — answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job — fear God — for 
naught? And Job answered — and said, No doubt — but ^ye^— are the people, 
and wisdom — shall die with you." 

In strongly impassioned sentences it frequently requires the slur 
of several notes on one word to express the intensity of scorn. The 
following reply of Death to Satan gives a striking example of this 


length of circumflex. The scorn and contempt exhibited is so intense 
there is little danger of overdoing: 

• Ami reckon'st tKou thyself with sjnnts of heaven, HELL-DOOMED, 
ami breath 1 si defiance liTrc and scorn, where i reign king, and to enrage thee 
more, — thy king, and lord." 

The circumflex is also used in grand and impressive passages. In 
the following example from Isaiah, so simple, yet so grand and com- 
prehensive, is a fine illustration of the pitch of dignified descent or 
cadence of the slur, and of the intense monotone : 

4 r is the Lord God of Hosts. 

3 J Holy, <Sh The whole earth — is full — 

2 ) Holy, of his glory. 

Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or — who — shall — stand — in his 
holy 2^ ace ? 

The following words which Shakespeare put into the mouth of the 
untamed Hotspur most perfectly expresses his opinion of an effeminate 
dandy. The recitationist should endeavor to look through the eyes 
of a blunt, straightforward, honest, earnest soldier, defending himself 
from an unjust accusation. It will be found that only a free use of 
the slender qualities of voice, made up largely of inflections and 
waves, can express the utter contempt and insignificance with which 
he regards the subject. 


" Hotspur. My liege, — I did deny no prisoners. 
But I remember when the fight was done, 
"When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, 
Breathless, and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord; neat, trimly dress'd; 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 
Showed like stubble-land — at harvest home. 
He was perfumed like a milliner; 
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet-hox, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose. And still he smil'd and talk'd; 
And as the soldiers — bore dead bodies by, 
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse 
Betwixt the wind — and his nobility. 
"With many holiday — and lady terms 
He question'd me; among the rest, demanded 
My prisoners in her majesty's behalf. 
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd 


To be so pestered with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief, and my impatience, 

Answered negligently — I know not what, — 

He should, or should not ; for he made me mad 

To see him shine so b7'isk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds (heaven save the mark!) 

And telling me the sovreign'st thing on earth 

Was spermaceti — for an inward bruise; 

And that it was a great pity (so it was) 

That villainous saltpetre — should be digged 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 

So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald un jointed chat of his, my lord, 

I answered indirectly, as I said; 

And I beseech you let not his report 

Come current, for an accusation, 

Betwixt my love and your high majesty." 

There have been many rules laid down and suggestions given in 
regard to the proper rendering of the emphatic words in sentences. 
With what degree of success they have been attended, or what actual 
guide they have been to the student, we will not discuss here. 

Most readers and speakers, however, regard emphasis as a matter 
of private judgment, which their own taste and appreciation of the 
sentiment should dictate, and which can not be determined by fixed 
rules; forgetting that taste would lose its significance, or at least 
become very bad taste, if it failed to translate the author's sentiments 

We might, with as much propriety, use the same liberty with the 
accentuation of syllables, or declare that individual taste should settle 
the various parts of speech. Emphasis is either something or nothing. 
It has a specific use or it has no use. If it has a legitimate place, it 
must be amenable to some law. 

Then who is to decide this matter, it is asked. Is not one person 
as good authority as another? To the first question we would reply, 
nature is to decide ; to the second, they are the best authority who 
have studied most closely natural effects. People in earnest, animated 
conversations and discussions, in asking or answering questions, always 
place the emphasis on the proper word, and would not deviate in 
rendering the ideas of others if they had not been erroneously taught 
by those who have ignored nature's invaluable lessons. 


We will give some specimens where taste and appreciation of sen- 
timent decided the emphatic words. 

Example 1. — The first sentence in the soliloquy of Macbeth when 
he is debating the murder of King Duncan — "If it were done when 
't is done, then it were well it were done quickly." 

Any one w T ho has observed critically the rendition of this passage 
by different professional readers and actors will have heard it empha- 
sized in the following various styles: "If it were done when 'tis done, 
then it were well it were done quickly." The sense of which is: "If 
it were done when 'tis, it were well." Here the sense is already com- 
pleted, and "it were done quickly" becomes a meaningless clause, 
having no reference to what precedes it. 

Example 2. — "If it were done when 'tis done, then it were well it 
were done quickly." "If it were when 'tis" is without meaning. If 
it is, it absolutely is; there is no "if it were" about it. By such 
emphasis we are led to this conclusion, that "if it were when 'tis, then 
it were well it were." 

The true idea to be conveyed is that the act does not prevent 
consequences following it; that committing the murder is no surety 
that the business will be finished — the object attained. 

Let us substitute the word finished for the first "done," and we 
will have no trouble in placing the emphasis: "If it were finished 
when 'tis done, then it were w T ell it were done quickly." Of course we 
can not help wishing that Macbeth had possessed a more copious 
language, and had not been obliged to use the same word three times 
in a sentence. But the office of the elocutionist is to find the meaning 
of the author and give it the proper expression, no matter how much 
it may be hidden by inexpressive words. 

We will give one other example, from Paul : 

"0 death ! where is thy sting? 
grave ! where is thy victory? " 

The majority of persons who read these sentences place the em- 
phasis on is, which conveys the idea that the sting of death and the 
victory of the grave are things the reader is searching to find and 
eager to possess. They are simply exclamations of triumph, in con- 
sequence of the resurrection having gained the victory over death and 
the grave. This having been fully demonstrated, the apostle bursts 
forth with this psean, placing the emphasis on where; meaning, where 
now is thy sting: 

" death ! where is thy sting ? 
grave ! where is thy victory?" 


We hope these quotations will be sufficient to convince both reader 
and student that emphasis must be governed by fixed rules, inherent 
in the nature of things. 

As we have shown that emphasis placed on the wrong words 
entirely changes the meaning of the author, it will be further seen 
that close and critical analysis is required, not only to find the truly 
emphatic word iu a sentence, but to ascertain in what way it is con- 
trolled by something previously expressed. 

Rule. — Simple courtesy requires that all proper names, when 
introduced for the first time, should receive emphasis. 

This rule must also be observed in presenting people to each other ; 
and further, when several names are spoken in succession, each must 
receive stress, and must not be pronounced in the same pitch of voice 
nor with the same breath. 

Example. — " George and Mary, James and Cynthia, John and Eliza 
attended the celebration." These persons are distinctly and separately 
introduced, and each individual name must be pronounced with dif- 
ferent emphasis (or pitch of voice) from the preceding one. 

We can readily see the folly of disregarding this rule if we present 
a number of persons in succession, trying to pronounce their .names 
with one breath and in exactly the same pitch of voice. Certainly 
nothing could be more disrespectful. Therefore we see here a law, 
founded on the nature of things, to neglect or disobey which would 
be inexcusable. 

The above rule applies also to objects and topics when first pre- 
sented. It is but an act of politeness, due to the listeners, that they 
may become acquainted with a new subject demanding their consid- 
eration. If this is neglected, the subject — its acts, qualities, etc. — 
mingle in inextricable confusion in the mind of the listener. 

>'ote. — After a formal, emphatic presentation of nouns has taken place, according to the 
preceding rule, on their recurrence the}' do not take the same prominence ; but their acts 
and qualities are next in order to receive stress. 

Example. — It rained, it hailed, it bleiv, making the storm terrific." 
Storm does not receive stress, because it stands in the position of a 
recurrence of the word. But the writer has introduced three distinct 
acts to express the character of the storm, and these should not be 
spoken on the same pitch of voice. As they all mean different things, 
different qualities of voice are required. 

Therefore all students of elocution should analyze each sentence, 
for the purpose of gaining the author's full meaning. This, of course, 
involves an amount of study that may be discouraging to those who 


expect to become proficients without labor; but it is the shortest and 
only road to excellence. 

One very simple way of finding correct emphasis is by questions 
and answers. Let us take a part of the 23d Psalm, and by questions 
and answers see what we learn: 

"The Lord is my Shepherd: I shall not want." Why shall I not 
want? Because the Lord is my Shepherd. Therefore we get this 
rendering: "The Lord is my SJiepherd: I shall not want" 

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures." Where doth He 
make me to lie down ? In green pastures. He leadeth me where ? By 
the still waters. He leadeth me in what paths? Of righteousness. 
For whose sake? For His name's sake. Again, "Unto thee, O Lord, 
do I lift up my soul!" Unto whom do I lift up my soul? Unto tJiee. 
What do I lift up unto thee? My soul. 

Note.— Remember that my is never emphatic unless it is used to denote possession, in 
contrast to something possessed by others, or when the object possessed is a subject of con- 

"The Lord said unto my lord, sit thou at my right hand until I 
make thine enemies — thy footstool," is correct, for two separate lords 
are designated. 

Rule. — When any two words in a sentence are brought in contrast 
they are emphatic; as, "Why should it live — wdiile Jam fallen?" 

In simple emphasis, where there are repetitions, or a succession of 
particulars to be designated, the stress is marked more by different 
pitches of voice and inflection than by increased loudness. 

"They (through faith) subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained 
promises, stopped the mouths of lions; — out of weakness were made strong, — 
waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the arms of the aliens." 

" But the fruit of the spirit is love, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, 
goodness, faith, meekness, temperance." 

" The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers" 

Emphasis may be properly divided into two classes, the Grammat- 
ical and Rhetorical. 

Grammatical emphasis sustains the corresponding relation to words 
in a sentence that accented syllables do to words, it being one of the 
essential elements that helps to give correct meaning, as well as life and 
soul to all delivery. As the subject and predicate are the important 
words in a sentence, they receive the stress from grammatical necessity. 

We will construct an example in simple grammatical emphasis. 
In pronouncing the name of God we should give it sufficient force to 
convey our devotional reverence for his name. If we say God is, there 


is an interest awakened, and the important stress is placed on the predi- 
cate, which means that he exists, that he is all in all. If we say God 
is great, it then becomes a simple copula ; great is the thing predicated, 
and which receives the important stress. In all simple declarations 
this is a rule : John is wise ; Julia is beautiful ; James is good. 

Rule 1. — But if they assume the form of positive affirmation or 
opposition to some other expressed opinion, then the copula receives 
the important stress; as, John is wise, notwithstanding you do not 
think so; Julia is beautiful, and James is good. 

Rule 2. — In altercations and disputes the emphasis is changed 
from the pronoun to the verb : ' ' This is my book. It w t as your book, 
but it is not now." The student should be required to originate sen- 
tences, emphasizing according to the preceding examples. 

Rule 3. — In the repetition of a question the verb takes the stress; 
as, Who is this man of whom you speak? No answer being received, 
the question is repeated, Who is this man of whom you speak? 

In all affirmations confirming a fact about which doubt has been 
expressed follow the same rule. 

There are two ways of making emphasis — by stress and quantity. 
Stress is simple unimpassioned emphasis, such as occurs in important 
words in general conversation, or in reading sentiments or thoughts 
not particularly impressive. Quantity is either loudness or force, 
with more prolongation of the vowel-sounds on the unaccented sylla- 
bles, and is marked also by variety of pitch. 

When two or more states, conditions, or qualities are used in the 
predicate they are all emphatic, and usually increase in force of 
utterance, the last one receiving more stress than the preceding 
ones ; but they should be spoken on different pitches, rather than 
in loudness of voice, bearing in mind also that two emphatic words 
must not be spoken without taking breath between them. God is 
Qtyreat — and Wgood — and '^glorious. 

Exercise in Medium Emphasis. 

Ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the grumbling — grew to a mighty — rumbling, 
And out of the house the rats came tumbling; — 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats ; 
Grave old plodders, — gay young fris Jeers ; 
Fathers, mothers, — uncles, cousins, 
Curling tails and pricking whiskers ; 
Families — by tens and dozens; — 


Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the piper for their lives. 
From street to street ho piped, advancing, 
And step for step they followed, dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all — plunged and perished 
Save one, — who, stout as Julius Cassar, 
Swam across, and lived to carry- 
To itatf-land-home his commentary. 

Words are emphatic when opposition is expressed or understood, 
or when we wish to enforce contrast. 

Example. — He who can not bear a joke should never give one. He that is 
past shame is past hope. The head— without the heart — is like a steam-engine 
without the boiler. They are generally most ridiculous themselves— who see 
most to ridicule in others. 

Words used to exhibit differences, joined by conjunctions, are 
emphatic; as, "Sink or swim, — live or die, — survive or 'perish." "The 
sun and moon — refused to shine." "Heaven and earth — will witness." 
"Land and sea." 

Over, under, beneath, below, above, upon, unto, within, without, 
my, your, our, their, etc. , are never emphatic unless made so by being 
contrasted by their opposite in meaning. 

Example. — We went over the bridge, not under it. We took the road 
below the town, not the one leading through the town. This is my seat, not 
yours. He is the governor of our state, not of theirs. 

Remark.— If we say, we loved, you hated, they wept, both subject and predicate receive 
stress ; for attention is drawn to the fact that there are not only different parties, but that 
they are doing different things. 

Exercise in Emphasis and Khetorical Pauses. — How mean, — how 
timid, — how abject, must that spirit be which can sit down — contented with 
mediocrity. As for myself — all that is within me is on fire. I had rather be 
torn into a thousand pieces than relax my resolution of reaching the sublimest 
heights of virtue — and knowledge, of goodness — and truth, of love — and wisdom. 
Nothing so admirable in human affairs but may be attained by the industry 
of man. We are descended from heaven; thither let us go. Let nothing satisfy 
us — lower than the summit of all excellence.^ 

Note. — Parenthetical clauses must be spoken in quicker time, and at least a note lower, 
than the words preceding and following. 

The student may now be required to read the following exercise 
from "The Passions," paying strict attention to all that has been said 
about emphasis, breathing, pitch, and parenthetical modulation : 

"When Music (heavenly maid) was young, 
While yet, in early Greece, she sung, 


The Passions oft (to hear her shell) 
Throng'd around her magic cell, — 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, — 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once ('t is said) when all were fired, 
Filled with fury — rapt — inspired — 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — (for madness ruled the hour — ) 
Would prove his own expressive power." 

After facility in simple emphasis has been acquired, it will be easy 
to master the rhetorical. 

Khetorical emphasis has relation to the expression of the forcible, 
passional, and emotional qualities. It does not interfere with the 
grammatical sense, but conveys intensity and passional expression 
that the other fails to do. 

If we say, "To arms, they come," the grammatical sense is complete ; 
But if the clauses are repeated, it is indicated that there is something 
more to be expressed. If we repeat the words without any additional 
stress of voice, there is nothing gained by their repetition. "They 
come! to arms! to arms! to arms!" The simple call, "They come! 
to arms!" will convey just as much as the repetition; but if each 
additional "to arms" is given with increasing force and higher pitch, 
some idea of the state of alarm and the necessity for immediate 
resistance will be manifested. 

r™ ln „ol to arms! 

ml . , , TO ARMS ! 

They come ! to arms ! 

This manner of rendition is absolute in all such passages where 
alarm and sudden resistance, or desire for help, is to be expressed. 
' T is nature's own expression. Let this and similar clauses be prac- 
ticed by commencing with the loud and high pitch, and diminishing 
in ratio to the close, and it will be seen how foolish and inadequate 
is the result. Kesistance and bravery will appear to be rapidly 
oozing out. 

Note.— Words, phrases, and sentences that require high pitches of voice before the 
climax is attained we denominate intense rising emphasis ; those which require descent 
to lower and graver pitches of voice we will denominate the intense falling or descending 

The repetition of words always indicates their increased expression, 
but does not indicate that they shall always be given on higher pitches 


of voice. Repetitions of a sacred, grave, impressive, and dignified 

character require the downward stepping of the voice; and, if the 

last repeated word closes the sentence, takes usually a low, emphatic, 

prolonged half-whisper. 

If I were an American as I am an Englishman, I never would lay down 

my arms; no, never, 

' never! 

The student will see at once the marked contrast in the two exam- 
ples above given, and also the difference of expression necessary to 
render the opposite conditions or states of mind. 

The cool deliberation of a person debating a strong case, endeav- 
oring to convince the judgment of an assembly, and enforcing his 
arguments by the powers of reason and rhetoric, would be quite 
different from the excited condition of one trying to arouse people to 
resistance against immediate danger. Neither would he use the scold- 
ing or high tones of anger ; to do so would only make him ridiculous, 
and be but a waste of breath and passion. The same rule is in force 
where a succession of words follow each other which directly appertain 
to the same subject, although not the same words repeated ; as, 

They, — by a strange frenzy driven, — fight for power, for plunder — and 

extended rule; we,-for our country, a ltars,-an& 

' our homes. 

Without a grave,— unlcneUed _ 

' uncoffined,-^ ^^ 

Also in all clauses and words that are used to express contempt ; as, 

Thou slave, ,-, , , 

' thou wretch, ,, _ , 

' thou coward! 

Thou art too base for man 

To tread upon ; ,, , 

r ' thou scum! ,, ,., . 

thou reptile 1 

But this full, falling emphasis occurs on the last-repeated word 
only when it ends a sentence. 

But if the repeated words or clauses commence the sentence — as in 
this example, "Ever thicker, thicker, thiclcer froze the ice on lake and 
river" — the first and second should take the increasing descending 
emphasis, but the last word "thicker" commences on exactly the pitch 
on which the second terminated, rising with a circumflex of voice to 
the pitch on which the first word "ever" was spoken ; for it is a law 
that no word should receive a full falling inflection or cadence until 
the sense or thought in the sentence is complete. The sense is here 
continued; and while the grave and impressive stress is required, it 


can not terminate there; for the words are introductory and not 


Ever ., . , . froze the ice, on lake and river. 

ihlcker > thicker, W* W 

Ever , er fell the snow o'er all the landscape. 

ee P er ' deeper, d 6C * 

How often we hear clergymen read the following passage: "Holy, 
holy, holy is the Lord God," etc., in a grave and monotonous tone 
of voice, giving just exactly as much force on one word as on the 
other; and the "who was, and ivho is, an^ who is to come," with the 
emphasis each time on the who. 

Holy ' holy liolV is the Lord God Almighty, 
Who ivas, and who is, and who is to come. 

Was, is, and is to come are used here to express the omnipresence 
of the Lord God Almighty, from the beginning to the end of time. 
If these are not emphasized the sense is not rendered. 

When a sentence is commenced with repeated clauses which have 
reference to time, place, distance, or particular qualities, the noun 
should be the first to receive the emphasis ; in the second repetition 
the adjective receives the stress ; in the third or last, both adjective 
and noun take increased power. 

7 „ , half a *■**» ° nWard - 

1. Half a league, hal f a lea § ue ' 

„™» 1m-, + +\,„ -k™™ none BTJT the brave deserve the fair. 
o xr v 4. 4.-U t, none but the brave, 

2. N one but the brave, ' 

„ „ . and nothing but our country. 

~ , our whole countrv, & 

3. Our country, - ' 

Repeated sentences commencing with the same word or clauses ex- 
pressing excited passion take the intense rising emphasis during the 
entire sentence without any downward dropping of the voice. 

3. Strike — for the green graves of your sires. 
2. Strike — -for your altars and your fires; 
1. Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 

The following is to be read in the same manner, except the first 
line where the parenthetical clause occurs : 

3. CHAEGE home — avenge them one and all. 
2. Charge home — your bleeding comrades fall ! 
1. Charge home — (brave men) — at freedom's call; 

The climax occurring on the last word. In the above each repetition 
of the words strike and home takes an increasing circumflex also. 


Pauses sometimes correspond to rests in music. As we have dwelt 
so much upon the necessity of respiration, it will be only necessary to 
Bay that the first use of a pause is to give time for the speaker to take 
breath. Pauses, or suspensions of voice, are of various lengths, from 
the slight breaking of voice between syllables to the prolonged rhetor- 
ical pause required to give effect and particularize a meaning which 
rapidity of utterance never allows. 

Close, attentive listening to rapid reading or speaking will enable 
a person to catch the leading idea of the author, but scarcely any 
thing further than this. To present a subject fully requires something 
more. ''There is a time for all things," is a saying as old as Solomon ; 
and that all things require time for their completion and perfect work 
is equally true. And it frequently becomes essential that not only a 
suspension of voice is necessary, but a visible pause is required before 
a word to excite expectation in the minds of the listeners, else they 
will not be impressed with the full importance of the word which is 
to follow. We denominate this "rhetorical effect," and the suspension 


The rhetorical pause occurs before or after the important words, 
and it is sometimes necessary that a word or sentence shall be com- 
pletely cut off or separated from what precedes it, and also from that 
which follows, by this suspension of voice, in order that sufficient 
attention may be drawn to it. But the words or clauses thus set 
apart receive emphasis in some form of modulation of voice that 
is not given to the others. Thus where opposite things or qualities 
are contrasted, the quality of voice must be used that will best 
express the character of each; as, Virtue — leads to happiness; — 
vice, — to misery. 

These pauses are of greater or less duration, and are regulated in 
length by the importance of the words or clauses before and after 
which they occur. To give some idea of the comparative length of 
these rests, we will illustrate by the use of one or more little pause- 
dashes, but give them merely as an illustration ; for the pupil should 
strive so to enter into the spirit of what he says or reads as to have 
them prompted by his feelings. 

A Deity — believed — is joy begun ; a Deity adored is joy advanced ; 

a Deity BELOVED is joy matured. 

It will be seen that this gives a separate molding of the different 
degrees of development of the religious state; and when rendered 
with the proper observance of the pauses, and. a slightly increasing 


emphasis, with an equally increasing rising circumflex of voice on the 
words believed, adored, bebved, the effect is very impressive. 

" Eoll on, — thou deep — and dark — blue ocean, roll ; 

Ten thousand fleets sweep — over thee in vain." 

"Hail ! universal Lord ! Be bounteous still — to give us only good ; and 
if the night — have gathered — aught of evil — or concealed, — disperse it now, as 
light — dispels the dark." 

It must be remembered that these pauses follow the law of climax 
just as does emphasis; that there are always strong points to be 
made, and the greatest force and expression must be reserved for 
that purpose. 

"Be our plain answer — this, The throne we honor — is the people's 

choice; the laws we reverence — are our fathers' legacy; the faith — we 

follow — teaches us— to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, — and die — 
with hopes of bliss — beyond — the grave." 

Let any person read the following extract from the flight of Xerxes 
without the suspension of voice, and then with it, and they will dis- 
cover the importance of its use : 

" He who with heaven contended 
Fled like a fugitive and slave; 
Behind, the foe — before, the wave." 
"Behind, the foe; before, the wave." 

In the first case Xerxes is behind the foe ; in the last, the foe is 
behind him. 

Again, in the following quotation from Othello, where he smothers 
Desdemona, the distinction between putting out the light of a taper 
and the extinguishing of life could not be expressed without this 
prolonged pause. Although Othello had many admirable traits of 
character, the passion of jealousy was too fierce to be controlled by 
his frank and generous nature. The pathetic detail which he gave 
to Desdemona of the dangers and hardships he had passed "in the 
tented field," excited in her the profoundest sympathy and love for 
this rough and swarthy soldier; "and he loved her that she did pity 
them." Othello was truly and devotedly attached to his wife; but, 
being impetuous and hasty in his disposition, his suspicions were 
easily awakened. Desdemona possessed a nature full of sweetness, 
gentleness, and compassion, and was ever true and constant to her 
husband. But Iago, a pretended friend of Othello — whose villainy 
has scarcely a parallel even among the most odious characters which 
Shakespeare has painted — by his dark innuendoes and insinuations 


against the conduct of Desdemona, succeeds in making Othello madly 
jealous of her. In his tones of mingled jealousy, despair, and revenge 

he says : 

"She is gone! — I am abused; and my relief 
Must be to hate her." 

After the agitation of the storm in his bosom had in some measure 
subsided, he concluded to terminate her existence. In the scene, 
Desdemona is lying on a couch; Othello enters with a light, and, 
with convulsed frame and broken murmurs, gazes upon his sleeping 
victim, and then gives expression to his feelings in the following 

words : 

" It is the cause, it is the cause, — my soul ; 
Let me not name it to you, — you chaste stars ! — 
It is the cause. Yet I '11 not shed her blood; 
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers — than snow, 
And smooth as monumental alabaster. 
Yet she must die, else she '11 betray more men. 

Put out the light, — and then Put out — the light ! 

If I quench thee, — thou flaming minister, — 

I can again thy former light restore, 

Should I repent me : but — once put out thine 

(Thou cunning'st pattern of excellent nature), 

I know not where is that Promethean heat 

That can — thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, 

I can not give it vital growth again, — 

It needs must wither. I '11 smell it on the tree. 

O balmy breath, that doth almost persuade 

Justice herself to break her sword ! One more, one more ! 

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, — 

And love thee after." 

To read or recite this requires great rhetorical expression ; and the 
line wherein occurs, "Put out the light, and then put out the light," 
must be particularly significant. The phrase "put out the light" in 
the first case implies blow out the candle. Where it is repeated — thus, 
" and then put out the light" — means put out the light of life; quite a 
different matter. A rhetorical pause ought therefore to be made 
after the word then and before the word the — the taking also a 
prolonged emphatic circumflex. To read or recite this soliloquy 
merely in a grammatical manner, without emphasis or rhetorical 
pause, would make it unimpressive, flat, and even farcical — would 
convey the idea that smothering one's wife was an easy and simple act 
in the course of events. 



Climax — Deep Breathing — Air — Stammering. 

In argumentative composition there is always a point to be made 
clear ; the culmination of proofs must be enforced gradually and with 
increasing intensity of voice until the climax is attained. 

Example 1. — " Let us contemplate then this connection which binds the 
posterity of others to our own ; and let us manfully discharge all the duties it 
imposes. If we cherish the virtues and principles of our fathers, Heaven 
will assist us to carry on the work of human liberty and human happiness." 

Example 2. — "Auspicious omens cheer us. Our firmament now shines 
brightly above us. Washington is in the clear upper sky; Adams, Jefferson, 
and other stars have joined the American constellation; — they circle round the 
center, and the heavens — beam, with new — light. Beneath this illumination let 
us walk the course of life; and — at its close devoutly commend our beloved 
country, — the common parent of us all, — to the Divine Benignity." 

In this peroration the last clause should terminate in a solemn half- 
whisper, accompanied with the upraised hand of veneration. 

Another equally good specimen is from the supposed speech of 
John Adams on the Declaration of Independence, given elsewhere. 

In highly poetical and emotional compositions the same law of 
preserving the climax must be observed, or the beauty and perfection 
of the idea as a whole will be lost. To illustrate this we will take the 
last four verses of the 24th Psalm in full, as they are replete with 
intense devotional fervor combined with great poetical exaltation. 
After enumerating the qualities of head and heart that will insure 
the blessing from the Lord, the Psalmist bursts forth in this poetical 
rapture on the greatness and power of the King of glory : 

Lift up your heads, — O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; 
and the King of glory — shall come in. 

Who — is this King — of glory? The Lord — strong — and mighty, the 
Lord — mighty in battle. 

Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; — 
and the King of glory shall come in. 

"Who is — this King of glory? The Lord of Hosts, — he is the King — of glory. 



The following- monologue (which Sir Walter Scott put in the 
mouth of Bertram, as descriptive of what that terrible outlaw wished 
his own (loath to resemble) is given here as an example. Bertram 
was a tyrannical and brutal character, showing compassion to none, 
but ruling all over whom he could gain the least advantage with a 
rod of iron. He wished his life to have an ending which would com- 
port with his fearless career. 

5. " And now, — my race — of terror — run, 

6. Mine — be the eve — of tropic sun; 

6. No pale gradations — quench his ray, 

5. No twilightCO — dews — his wrath allay: 

4. With(5) disk (3)like battle target— red, 

6. He rushes — t' his burning bed; 

5. Dyes the wide wave — with bloody($) light; 

3. Then sinks — (2) at once, — and all is — (I)night." 


mine — be the eve — of tropic sun : 
And now, — my race — of terror — run, 

No pale gradations — quench his ray, 
no twilight — 

dews— his wrath— allay :- 

he rushes — t' his burning bed 

-like battle target — red, 

Dyes the wide wave — with bloody 

-then sinks- 

once — and all is — 

Exercise on Pitch, Rhetorical Pause, Emphatic Circumflex. 

Catiline. " Banish' d from Rome? — What 's banish' d — but set free 
From daily contact with the things I loathe? 
' Tried — and convicted — traitor!' Who says this? 


Who '11 prove it, at his peril, on my head? 

Banish'd — I thank you for 't. It breaks my chains! — 

I held some slack allegiance till this hour; — 

But now my sword : s my own. Smile on, my lords! 

I scorn to count what feelings, — wither'd hopes, — 

Strong provocations, — bitter, — burning — wrongs — 

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up — 

To leave you — in your lazy — dignities. 

But here I stand and scotf you ; here I fling 

Hatred — and full defiance in your face. — 

Your Consul 's merciful. For this, all thanks. 

He dares not touch — a hair of CatilineP 

Exercises embracing Inflections, Emphasis, Rhetorical 
Pauses, Modulation, and Prolongation. 

All the preceding knowledge gained on these subjects must be put 
in practice on these exercises. The numbers indicate the modulation 
of voice required, as explained before by the use of lines and spaces. 
It will be well for the teacher to write these and similar passages on 
the blackboard for concert practice, as this will allow the class per- 
sonal freedom for the graces of gesture. 

( 6 )"What a piece of work — is man! how noble — in treason! how infinite — 
in (6) faculty ! in inform — and (5) moving — how (6) express and admirable ! — 
in action how — like an angel ! — in apprehension how — (!) like a god !" 

Note.— The last "how " must receive the upward, concrete slur of three notes (4, 5, 6) ; the 
voice then falling to the 1st, by a discrete movement, on the word " like" finishing the climax 
in a half-whisper. 

"My judgment — approves this measure, and my whole heart — is in it: all 
that I have,(4)— all that(5) I am,— and all that(6) I hope— in this life, (5) I am 
now ready( 4 ) here — to stake upon it; — and I leave off — as I began; th't( 4 ) sink — 
or swim,(o) live— or die, SL t KVIVE(6)— or PERISH— (7)/ am for the Dec- 
laration. (4)It is my living sentiment, and,(2) — by the blessing of God, — Wit 
shall be my dying sentiment. (5) Independence — {fynow — and independence 

(9) FOREVER." 

The first essential qualification for becoming a good speaker, reader, 
or singer, is good breathmg. It is a solemn fact that one half the 
civilized world knows not how to respire. All infants breathe prop- 
erly ; but natural inflation is soon squeezed out of them. Air is very 
well for animals, but is too common and vulgar for refined humanity. 
A little air is all — a little short breath to flutter and pant with makes 
a deliciously-interesting condition of health. It is so exquisite to be 
too delicate to sing, and too feeble to read or converse. 

Very false notions have hitherto prevailed with regard to the im- 
portance of the uses of bodily functions. It is time that there should 


be an earnest protest instituted against any neglect of them. They 
were given us as instruments and means of expressing the high, nohle, 
and almost infinite faculties with which our Creator has been pleased 
to endow us, and should be reverently and wisely preserved and used 
for the purposes for which they were designed. People who squeeze 
all the breath they can out of their lungs should never attempt to 
sing praises to the name of God "with voice and cornet," for they can 
not do it. That which was breathed into our nostrils, and made us 
living souls, must have an abiding place ; and if we give it not room, 
how can we thank or praise him while refusing to accept freely and 
fully this first gift of life ? 

There are certain muscles used in the act of breathing that must 
be strong and flexible, else the process of respiration is very imperfect, 
the blood is not vitalized, and a general debility and disease is the 
result. Those to which we shall call special attention are the dia- 
phragm and the abdominal muscles. If these are weak and inactive 
the person is incapable of drawing a full breath and expelling it with 
adequate force; and under these circumstances it will be out of the 
question for a speaker to properly economize and utilize his breath. 
He will suffer from fatigue, and be wanting in evenness and purity of 
tone, and fail entirely in becoming impressive. 

The diaphragm is an exceedingly elastic muscle, dividing by its 
grand arch the lungs above from the stomach below. It is sometimes 
spoken of as "the floor of the lungs and the roof of the stomach." 
\Vhen this muscle is strong and under good control it contracts and 
expands with great power. In the process of inhaling breath it 
should contract so as to allow the lower air-cells of the lungs to 
become fully inflated with air. This motion acts on the stomach, 
and by its downward pressure on the abdominal muscles produces an 
expansion. In exhaling breath these motions are reversed. And 
this beautiful, harmonious contraction and expansion of the muscles 
not only cause a vitalization of the blood, but incite the stomach to 
activity and the viscera to healthy conditions, and render them all 
efficient co-operators in the act of speaking. Indeed, if proofs are 
wanted in regard to the use of these lower muscles, Ave may derive 
instruction from observation of the animals in their expulsion of 
voice-sounds. Observe the cow, how her flanks expand and contract, 
and what tremendous expulsions of sound she makes, when bellowing 
for her lost youngling. 

The majority of persons breathe by taking as small a quantity of 
air as possible into the upper portion of the lungs. If asked to take 


a deep breath, they will inhale what air they can, raise the shoulders, 
expand the diaphragm, press it up against the lower portions of the 
lungs, thereby preventing any possibility of this vitalizing element 
entering that region. And they will hold this breath in the upper 
part of the respiratory organs as long as they can, distending and 
straining them to their utmost capacity. This they call deep breath- 
ing; but the human organism in a normal condition of respiration 
never makes such spasmodic exertions. Deep breathing is quite a 
different process, and requires an opposite muscular movement. As 
before stated, in the act of inhaling breath the diaphragm should con- 
tract and the abdominal muscles expand, leaving room for the lower 
cells of the lungs to become perfectly inflated. Then when the return 
action of these muscles takes place there is a goodly quantity of breath 
out of which to produce sound ; and these friendly muscles are in a 
proper condition and position to hold and control the expulsion of 
breath, make the vibrations even and the sounds pure. In the 
method first referred to the muscles have already done their best in 
sending the air into the upper cells. The contraction is already com- 
pleted, and they are unprepared to assist the laryngeal chords in 
controlling the voice-sounds. Besides, the unnatural forcing of air 
into the upper part of the respiratory organs, straining and distending 
them, and the rapid expulsion of this concentrated column of breath, 
passing out by mere force of its accumulation, excite undue activity 
of the vocal chords and often cause their paralysis and a consequent 
loss of voice. In all cases it renders them disobedient to the will; 
the vibrations are uneven and the voice-sounds imperfect. Stam- 
mering, weak throats, and bronchial affections are the results most 
common. Indeed, the amount of labor thrown upon the laryngeal 
chords to perform without sufficient air, and without the friendly 
co-operation of the dorsal and abdominal muscles, is appalling. And 
the discordant, rating, rasping, screeching, sounds produced in con- 
sequence are enough to drive one mad with torture. 

To convey the ideas of the human mind, its emotions, its shades 
of thought, requires a variety of vocal efforts. At times, loud and 
strong tones — again, high and piercing ones — and again, delicate 
inflections and soft intonations are necessary. All these subtle move- 
ments of the chords and muscles should be of the nicest and most 
delicate order, or the voice utterly fails to give such expression as the 
mind desires. Certain means must be used to produce certain desired 
results. Therefore it will be seen that a full, natural respiration is 
the first essential qualification for producing a good voice. It is not 


to be understood that good breathing is all that is necessary; but 
without a full expansion of the lungs, and a perfect control of the 
muscles used in respiration, there can not be lasting resonance and 
beauty of voice. 

The ancient teachers of vocal culture, called pbnasei or vocists, in 
order to develop strength of voice in their pupils, carried them through 
a severe course of training of all the chords and muscles used in 
breathing and speaking. How well they understood the co-operation 
of the diaphragm and the abdominal muscles with the vocal apparatus, 
and the importance of their strength and flexibility, is shown by their 
compelling their pupils to lie on their backs with weights on their 
chests, and to declaim while walking, running, and climbing. 

We know but faintly what w r onderful power, flexibility, and 
sweetness of voice we are capable of cultivating. The silver voice 
of Cicero and the thunder-tones of Demosthenes echo through cen- 
turies and encourage us to labor for perfection. A speaker with a 
strong, magnetic voice comes before his audience clothed with power. 
There is nothing so inspiring ; it gives weight to thought and enforces 
argument. All great orators and tragedians have possessed great 
force and resonance in this wonder-working instrument. It is said 
that Garrick could speak with ease to ten thousand people. Let any 
one seriously contrast the full, round, healthful voice with a sick, 
feeble, squeaking one, and he will be willing to work faithfully for 
the better one. 


As the tendency of poetry — is to exalt the thought, so that of music is to 
exalt the affections. As the aspirations of the poet are to raise the mind to 
higher flights and sentiments, so those of the musician are to elevate it to 
higher — and fuller exaltation of the emotions. We read poetry for the 
former, and resort to music for the latter; and in vocal music both effects 
are produced if the means — are adapted to the end. Poetry in its external 
form should be expressed in language that implies the elevation of the senti- 
ments, and be composed in rhythmical or metrical lines. Music — in its outward 
form is a composition of varied sou?ids or tones, expressed in such style as to 
imply the elevation of the affections, and composed in rhythmical proportion. 
What poetry is — to thought, music is — to feeling. As in painting or in sculpture 
we speak of the "poetry of form," so music may be called the poetry of sound; 
and, internally, the poetry of feeling and emotion. How sad it is — to think of 
its being perverted and made the servant or slave to the lower passions ! 

Stammering is sufficiently common to require no description here, 
further than to say it is a hesitation or interruption of speech. It 
presents a variety of forms. In some cases the stammerer makes an 


effort to speak while his lips seem to be hermetically sealed ; in others, 
he will, while speaking, suddenly lose all power of volition over his 
articulating organs, while his mouth remains wide open. Others, 
again, make an effort to speak, and all breath is expelled without 
producing a sound. In most cases, however, there is usually little or 
no vocality. To enumerate all the phases is unnecessary, as the cause 
is essentially the same in all — weakness of the vocal and respiratory 
muscles. But many persons continue the habit, which was acquired 
in a delicate state of health, after these chords and muscles are strong. 
In such cases it becomes exceedingly obstinate, and requires great 
patience and determination on the part of both pupil and teacher to 
effectually overcome it. 

It will be recollected that we have said all voice or vocal sounds 
are made in the top of the larynx, and that aspirates are pure breath- 
sounds. Therefore, when we find the organs of speech simply give 
us aspirate-sounds without any voice-sound, we refer the fault to the 
place where the voice is produced. If the laryngeal chords are too 
weak to obey volition, and can not contract soon enough to obstruct 
the breath and cause an immediate vibration of air, the tongue 
and lips take the unvocal breath and make it into aspirates. The 
organs are all ready to talk, and the effort is to co-operate naturally. 
And when the unfortunate person finds but a portion of his organs 
working vigorously while the rest are making only spasmodic efforts, 
it becomes embarrassing, and this of course only heightens the 

The first step toward a cure is to direct the mind of the afflicted 
person to the seat of the difficulty ; the second, a return to a normal 
condition of breathing. The patient must acquire a full, even inhala- 
tion and exhalation of air — so complete that the whole abdominal 
surface will rise and fall harmoniously, unaccompanied by any spas- 
modic exertions from the top of the lungs, or raising of the shoulders. 
Nothing can be done that will give the least promise of success until 
this much is gained. The next step should be a course of vocal 
gymnastics, with as little talking as possible. Indeed, it would much 
facilitate improvement if talking should be dispensed with altogether 
at first, and the patient concentrate all energy in forming the vowel- 
sounds. All the vowels should be expelled by different degrees of 
force, in different lengths, and in different qualities of voice, until the 
vocal muscles are strengthened and become perfectly obedient to the 
will — never forgetting that these exercises must be moderate, and be 
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sight of the important feet that the muscles and organs of speech, 
like other members of the body, can be strengthened by use. 

Syllables containing pure voice and pure aspirate-sounds may then 
be taken as the next step in the order of practice; and so on, slowly 
and calmly, to words; from words to clauses; from clauses to sen- 
tences — remembering always to hold firmly to the vowel-sounds, at 
least until the habit is completely acquired. The vowel-sounds are 
the anchor of hope to the stammerer. It is often remarked that 
stammerers have no trouble in singing what they wish, being perfectly 
understood, while they can not speak a word intelligibly. In singing 
they are obliged to prolong and make predominant the vocal or vowel- 
sounds. The same practice should obtain in speaking, but not to so 
great an extent. The stammerer must learn to use these sounds in 
speech as readily as in song, and the battle is won. 

We are fully aware that no written directions can take the place 
of the calm, strong, helpful will of a teacher. The magnetic presence 
of one who will not only inspire the patient to effort, but become a 
support and strength to the yielding courage, is of great importance. 
But let those who are thus afflicted consider this, that no one is with- 
out a resource; that, to throw away all excitement and sensitive 
nervousness on the subject, calmly accept the inevitable, and as calmly 
determine to master the difficulty, will surely result in a triumph over 
all obstacles. 

The tendency of most persons in reading and writing is to let the 
voice drop before a climax is obtained, or the fury of passion has 
reached its height, which quite destroys the effect. To break up this 
habit the preceding exercises (see pages 88, 89, 90, 91) have been 
arranged on lines similar to the musical staff. By this means the eye 
assists and guides the voice in the continuous upward intensity which 
belongs to the vigor of passion; and then again, also, for the down- 
ward or falling intensity. These are exceedingly important exercises, 
and very invigorating and exciting. 

The rapid circumflex of voice, or running of the scale, on a single 
word, as in the illustrations, must not be omitted ; it will be impos- 
sible to produce the desired effect without it. If the word up, as 
illustrated on the chart, is first struck on the high pitch of voice upon 
which the preceding and following words are uttered, there is nothing 
gained but a severe strain of the vocal chords. But the rapid, upward 
circumflex of voice, or running of the scale, ending on the high pitch, 
will give the full expression and not injure the voice. This rule holds 
good in all intense emphatic words in which the climax is centered. 



Pitch — The Orotund Voice — The Falsetto — The Conversational 
Voice — The Grave Voice — The Tremolo — The "Whisper — Various 
Movements oe Voice. 

There is a diversity of opinion among authors in regard to what 
constitutes the orotund and the falsetto voices; and after the most 
elaborate descriptions students are no wiser, but are frequently more 
puzzled than before. 

The name "orotund," or round tone, perhaps contains within itself 
the best definition that can be given. It properly means a prolonged 
utterance on a high pitch of voice, but not so high as to preclude 
the sound from a ringing fullness of tone. To make it the mouth 
must be wide open, the lips projected, the voice pitched perhaps on 
B, below the middle C, of the musical scale, and ranging in general 
modulation up to E for female voices ; the male voice will be a fifth, 
or an octave, below. In producing this voice the organs are open, 
allowing a greater and more forcible column of air to pass out, 
causing a great breadth of vibration. 

This is a general rule ; but of course organic diversity must always 
be respected. Whatever the organism may be, producing either alto 
or treble, bass or tenor, each human voice has its relatively high, low, 
and medium tones. The natural pitch of each is the predominating 
tone used in speaking and reading; and the protracted exercises of 
speaking requires that there be no violation of this organic law. Still, 
in recitative exercises, one person may assume a variety of keys, and 
carry on quite a dialogue, sustaining each pitch of voice very satis- 

The orotund is one of the most commanding and impressive move- 
ments of the voice. It fully displays the majesty of man as a being 
of soul, of thought, of imagination, and will. It is a quality of voice 
that every public speaker should cultivate, for it bears vital and 
magnetic forces on its wings. The patriotic and the loftier feelings 


of the soul are touched and aroused by its potency, and the religious 
emotions awakened at its magic call. 

"Now for the fight! Now for the cannon-peal! 

Forward — through hlood, and toil, and cloud, and fire ! 
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, 

The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire ! 

They shake ! like broken waves their squares retire ! 
On them, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel ! 

Think of the orphan'd child, the murdered sire: 
Earth cries for blood ! In thunder on them wheel ! 
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal ! " 

Exercises in Orotund Voice. 

In the following exercises the voice ranges from G, on the fifth 
of the scale, to B, C, D, and E: 

(B) "Majestic monarch — of the cloud! 

"Who rear'st aloft — thy regal form 
To hear — the tempest — trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

"When strive — the warriors of the storm 
And rolls — the thunder-drum of heaven ! — 

(C) Child of the sun! — to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, — 
To hover — in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away — the battle-stroke, 
(E) And bid its Mendings — shine afar, — 
Like rainbows — on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers — of victory. 11 — Drake. 

(C) "No, let us rather choose, — 

Arm'd with hell-flames and fury — all at once — 

(E) O'er heaven's high tow'rs to force resistless way, 
Turning our tortures into horrid arms 
Against the torturer, (B) when, — to meet the noise 
Of his almighty engine, — he shall hear 
Infernal thunder, and — for lightning see 
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
Among his angels ; and his (E) throne itself 
Mixt with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, 
His own invented torments." — Milton. 

"The horrors and cruelties of civil and intestine war, the bloodshed and 
the barbarism of the battle-field, the furies and the crimes attendant upon 
massacre, conflagration, and pillage, can never be made to prepare the way for 
the blessings of liberty, — peace, — and equal rights to enter — and take up their 
abode in any land. They serve only to bind upon it still more firmly the burden 


and the woes of slavery and sin. 'All they that take the sword' (that is, select 
and adopt it as the means of improving their social or political condition) 
'shall perish with the sword.' But tryth — is mighty, reason — is mighty, con- 
science — is mighty, yet the spirit of human and of Christian benevolence is 
mightier than them all, — and the most despised minority, the most trampled 
victims of oppression and slavery, if they make these the weapons of their 
warfare, and wield them in faith, patience, and perseverance, will be sure to 
conquer, — for God — will be their ally. And the strongest and fiercest— giant, 
who comes to the field with a spear, and with a sword, and with a shield will 
be sure to fall before the merest stripling who meets them in the name 
of— the Lord."— C. W. Upham. 

The falsetto, as its name implies, is false voice. We may more 
properly say a strained voice. In oratory it is talking on a higher 
pitch than the orotund, and partakes of the tones used in the effort 
of calling or talking to persons at a distance. To produce it properly 
the imagination should be directed to distance. The lips and corners 
of the mouth are drawn further back than in producing the orotund, 
and the sound is more shrill. The round O will best represent the 
orotund tone and the compressed the falsetto. 

This quality of voice is not much used in speaking, yet we have 
many passages in recitations where it occurs, adding usually great 
rhetorical force and beauty of expression, by its bursting suddenly 
upon the hearer, in tones from eight to ten notes higher than the 
general tenor of the piece. It occurs in passages where intense 
excitement or alarm is to be exhibited, as in the cry of fire, help, 
or of resistance, of victory, and in calling and hailing persons at a 
distance; as, ^Fire! ( 9 )Fire! ( 10 )FIRE! 

" 'Ah ! ' she said, ' the eyes of Panguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness; 
I can feel his icy fingers 

Clasping mine amid the darkness.' 
(8)Hiawatha! (IO)Hiawatha! " 

"The midday watch was set beneath the blaze of light, 
When there came — a cry from the tall mast-head, 
(ii) 'A sail! (I2)a sail in sight ! '" 

This voice, when used to represent sounds in the distance, must be 
fainter and much softer than that pitch of voice used in representing 

something near : 

"When o'er the silent seas alone 
For days and nights we 've cheerless gone, 
Oh! they who 've felt it know how sweet 
Some sunny morn a sail to meet. 


Sparkling at once is every eye; 
(9) 'Ship ahoy ! CH>)ship ahoy ! • our joyful cry; 
While answering back the sounds we hear, 
(li) 'Ship ahoy! (l*)sAi/4hoy I what cheer? what cheer?'" 

The conversational voice, though it should be pure in tone, is re- 
stricted in compass or prolongation, and the vibrations are not so 
forcible as in the orotund. Very many people, in common conver- 
sation, run into an insipid falsetto, mixed with nasal tones, which are 
exceedingly grating to the ear of the listener. 

We may perhaps be allowed to add here that this nasal-sound is a 
predominant fault in some parts of our country. But it should never 
be dignified, as it sometimes is, by naming it a head-voice. There is 
no such thing as a head-voice in nature. It is a habit, and an exceed- 
ingly bad one, of perverting pure sound ; forcing it through the nose 
when it ought to have free passage through the open mouth. There 
is but one pure nasal-sound in the English alphabet, which occurs on 
ng or nk, and in this there is no mixture of mouth-sound. M and n 
are formed in the back of the mouth, and the sound thrown through 
the nose. They are mixed mouth and nasal-sounds. If there is any 
stoppage of this passage, by a drying of the secretions, by catarrh, or 
by snuff-taking, these sounds can not be produced, while the swallowed 
sounds of bo, d, gr usually take their place. If persons thus affected 
attempt to say "good morning" the result is good bordig. This is not 
more objectionable, however, than the constant habit of driving the 
sound through the nose or splitting it between the nasal and mouth 
passages. This habit prevails so widely in some parts of the United 
States — the sounds are so common — that they are unnoticed, and 
persons imitate each other by association without knowing it. To 
remedy this it is necessary to husband the expenditure of the breath, 
holding the sound firmly, and forcing it out through the open mouth. 
This, like other bad habits, requires frequent friendly hints from 
associates if we would have it effectually eradicated. 

Others again talk on one key without modulation or breath. In- 
cessant talkers generally choose this manner, and are called tiresome 
and disagreeable. The painful sympathy of the listener, occasioned 
by their want of breath wherewith to make pure sounds, is almost 
intolerable. To be decently smothered would be merciful in com- 

The following example shows the ascent from the conversational 
te falsetto, and the descent to the conversational voice: 


" The war — that for a space did fail 
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, 

And — Stanley — was the cry. 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye; 
"With dying hand above his head 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 
And shouted, 'Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! 
On, Stanley, ON ! ' 
Were the last words of Marmion." 

The grave tones of voice are the antipodes of the orotund and fal- 
setto, and are used in solemn and impressive styles, which are more 
difficult to acquire. The transition of the voice from the extreme 
upper tones of the falsetto to a full low register in many instances is 
productive of marvelous rhetorical effects, and repays the student for 
the labor of acquiring such power. 

"The world was void; 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonless, — her bless, — treeless, — manless, — lifeless; — 
A lump — of death ; — a chaos — of hard clay. 
The rivers, — lakes, — and ocean — all stood still ; 
And nothing stirr'd — within their silent depths. 
Ships, sailorless, — lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd, 
They slept on the abyss without a surge. 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; — 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds were wither' d in the stagnant air; 
And the clouds perished. — Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them; — she — was the universe." 

" But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery." 

Example of ascent from the grave tones of voice into the orotund, 
ending in the falsetto : 

"The combat deepens; — on, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! 
And charge with all thy chivalry !" 

Tremor of voice is produced by a retention of the volume of air in 
the larynx, with the glottis sufficiently contracted to prevent an even 



escape of sound. The escaping air playing upon the chords of the 
glottis, and this double vibratory force reaching the sounding-board 
above, gives a tremulous or wavy sound of the voice, corresponding 
somewhat to the trembling, buzzing sound produced in making the 
name-sound of z. But the difference between these is wide; the first 
being an emotional sound formed in the voice-chamber, the other an 
articulating sound made by the tongue and teeth. There are many 
emotions which can not be expressed without this effort. It is used 
in sorrow, in terror, and in distress of mind. Bestow much practice 
on the trilled words: 

" Cromwell, — I did not think — to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play — the woman." 

Queen Katharine said, in commending her daughter to Henry, "And 
a little to love her, for her mother's sake; who hved him — Heaven 
knows how dearly!" 

That which gives beauty to all the qualities of the voice is feeling. 
We must feel what we say. 

u Hark — I hear thy thunder's sound 
Shake the forum — round — -and round. 
Shake — the pillars — of the earth ! " 

" Tried — and convicted — traitor ! — Who says this ? 
1 Banish'd !' — I thank you for it." 

"Unnerved, and now unsettled in his mind, 
From long and exquisite pain, he sobs and cries, 
Kissing the old man's cheek, — ' Help me, — my father! 
Let me, I pray thee, — live once more among ye. 
Let me — go home.' ' My son,' returns the Doge, 

1 Obey. — Thy country wills it.' " 

Hamlet Oh ! that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ; 
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed 
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter. O God ! O God ! 
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
Fie on 't ! O fie ! 't is an unweeded garden, 
That goes to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, 
Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ! — nay, not so much, not two : 
So excellent a king; that was, to this, 


Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 

Must I remember ? why, she would hang on him 

As if increase of appetite had grown 

By what it fed on ; and yet, within a month, — 

Let me not think on 't. — Frailty, thy name is woman ! — 

A little month ; or ere those shoes were old 

"With which she followed my poor father's body, — 

Like Niobe, all tears ; — why she, even she 

(0 God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 

Would have mourn' d longer) — married with my uncle, 

My father's brother, but no more like my father 

Than I to Hercules, — within a month ; 

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 

Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 

She married. — Oh, most wicked speed, to post 

"With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 

It is not, nor it can not come to, good ; 

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue ! 

Pure ivhisper is the use of the aspirate-sounds without any mixture 
of voice. It is usually the language of fear and secrecy. 

Macbeth. I have done the deed. — Didst thou not hear a noise? 

Lady Macbeth. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. 
Did not you speak ? 

Macb. When ? 

Lady M. Now. - 

Macb. As I ascended? 

Lady M. Ay. 

Macb. Hark ! 

Who lies i' the second chamber ? 

Lady M. Donalbain. 

Macb. This is a sorry sight. 

Lady M. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight. 

Examples of the grave voice falling occasionally in a half whisper : 

" Unseen hands — of spirits — are ringing his knell. 
And the death-angel-^/?a/>s — his broad wing o'er the wave." 

" Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, — wondering, — fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whisper' d word, l Lenore! 7 
This I whisper' d, and an echo murmur'd back the word, ' Lenore ! ' 
Merely this, and nothing more." 


The following words uttered by Lady Macbeth must be given 
mostly in a prolonged half whisper, with a liberal use of rhetorical 

pauses : 

Physician. How came she by that light? 

Gent Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually; 'tis her 

Phy. You see, her eyes are open. 

Gent. Ay, — but their sense is shut. 

Phy. What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her hands. 

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands : 
I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. 

Lady M. Yet here 's a spot. 

Phy. Hark! she speaks. 

Lady M. Out, damned spot! — out, I say! One, two; why, then 'tis time 
to do 't ! Hell — is murky I Fie, — my lord, Jie / a soldier and afeard ? What need 
we fear who knows it, when none can call our power — to account ? Yet — who 
would have thought the old ma?i to have had so much blood in him ? 

Phy. Do you mark that? 

Lady M. The Thane of Fife had a wife ; where is she now ? What, — will 
these hands ne'er be clean ? No more o' that, my lord, — no more o' that; you 
mar all with this starting. 

Phy. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not. 

Gent. She has spoken what she should not, I am sure of that : Heaven 
knows what she has known. 

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: — all the perfumes of Arabia 
will not sweeten this — little hand. Oh! — oh! — oh! 

Phy. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charged. 

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the 
whole body. 

Lady M. Wash your hands, — put on your night-gown ; look not so pale : 
I tell you yet again, Banquo 's buried; he can not come out of his grave. 

Phy. Even so. 

Lady M. To bed, to bed ; there 's knocking at the gate. Come, — come, — 
come, — come, give me your hand: what's done — can not be undone. To bed, — 
to bed, — to bed. 

Phy. Will she go now to bed ? 

Gent. Directly. 

Phy. More needs she the divine than the physician. 

Examples of Various Movements of Voice. 


" Now storming fury rose, — 
And clamor ; — such as heard in heaven till now 
Was never ; arms on armor clashing, brayed 
Horrible discord; and the madding wheels 
Of brazen chariots raged." 


" Him — the Almighty Power 
Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, 
"With hideous ruin and combustion — down 
To bottomless perdition ; — there to dwell 
In adamantine chains, and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms." 


"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! — rage! blow! 
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout 
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks ! 
You — sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 
'Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, 
Singe my white head ! 
And thou, all-shaking thunder, 
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world ! " 


"So millions — are smit — with the glare of a toy: 
They grasp at a pebble — and call it — a gem, 
And tinsel — is gold (if it glitters) to them; 
Hence, dazzled with beauty, the lover is smit; 
The hero — with honor, the poet — with wit; 
The fop — with his feather, his snuff-box and cane, 
The nymph with her novel, the merchant with gain : 
Each finical priest and polite pulpiteer, 
Who dazzles the fancy, and tickles the ear 
"With exquisite tropes and musical style, 
As gay as a tulip, — as polished as oil, 
Sells truth — at the shrine of polite eloquence, 
To please the soft taste and allure the gay sense" 


11 High on a throne — of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and — of Ind, — 
Or — where the gorgeous East with — richest hand — 
Show'rs — on her kings — barbaric — pearl and gold, — 
Satan exalted sat, — by merit raised 
To that bad eminence, — and, from despair — 
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires 
Beyond thus high, — insatiate to pursue 
Vain war with Heaven." 


"How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank, 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music — 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night — 
Become the touches of sweet harmony J\ 



" Let the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebeck sound, 
To many a youth — and many a maid, 
Dancing — in the checkered shade. 


Modulation — Delivery — Examples in Various Styles: Tenderness; 
Kapid, Light, and Brilliant; Awful; Threatening; Eevenge; 
Scorn; Disgust and Contempt; Sarcasm; Kemorse and Humilia- 
tion; Contrition and Doubt; Fear; Love; Sorrow and Grief; 
Horror and Agony. 

Modulation comprises all the qualities of speech heretofore treated, 
from the division of accent, and all qualities of voice in shades of 
inflection and varieties of pitch. To have good modulation requires 
the mastery of every element in the art, with judgment and taste 
to direct their use. This gives the music of speech and the melody 
of oratory. 

The most delicate shades of sound are those made by human 
speech. It is through the ear that we learn to imitate sound, as 
through the eye we learn to imitate motions. Let not persons say 
they can not learn to sing because they have no ear for music — can 
not detect sound or learn tunes. If such had not possessed a dis- 
criminating ear, they never could have learned to utter those words 
in which they say they have not the ability to detect sound. They 
are denying the sounds they use. 

'T is true we all have ears, and hear not the wonderful sounds that 
strike the tympanum; but it is because consciousness is not atten- 
tive — does not listen for them; and of course the mouth can not 
articulate what is unknown to the ear. The dumb are only so 
because the ear is dead. Therefore those who have eyes and ears 
need never limit their attainments. 

Eules. — To be heard distinctly at a distance requires a full expul- 
sion of the vowel-sounds ; to be understood requires a clear and perfect 
articulation of the aspirates and subvowels ; to be appreciated the voice 
must be modulated so as to present each new thought or sentiment on 
a different pitch from the preceding one. 


Delivery is word-painting ; the speaker sees the subject in his mind 
distinctly. If it is a picture of a landscape, a battle-scene, a death- 
scene, it matters not what, it must be first distinctly understood and 
appreciated by the individual before any attempt should be made to 
express it. We have words, similes, tropes, analogies — the various 
tones and movements of voice, which correspond to the pigments of 
the artist — by which we transfer what we have in our own mind to 
the minds of others. Therefore let the student get a general outline 
of the subject of the piece he is about to recite. First comprehend 
the general situation of affairs, then the various objects in its com- 
position, their relations to each other and to the main subject, and 
then, by voice and action, endeavor to make it intelligible to others, 
exactly as it lies in his own mind. 

Take the following extract, learn it, analyze it, review it, and then 
recite it : 

[King Henry before the gates of Harfieur ; the governor and citizens above, on the walls 
of the besieged city. The attitude and action those of one speaking to an audience at some 
elevation — the voice loud and prolonged, to enable it to be heard at a distance ; together with 
the imperious tone of command, to express the matter of the speech, the tenor of which is 
a threat.] 

K. Henry. How yet resolves the governor of the town ? 
This is the latest parle we will admit : 
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves ; 
Or, like to men proud of destruction, 
Defy us to our worst: for as I am a soldier — 
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best — 
If I begin the battery once again, 
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur 
Till in her ashes she lie buried. 
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up; 
And the flesh' d soldier, rough and hard of heart, 
In liberty of bloody hand shall range 
"With conscience wide as hell; mowing like grass 
Tour fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants. 
"What is it then to me if impious war, 
Array' d in flames like the prince of fiends, 
Do, with his smirch' d complexion, all fell feats 
Enlink'd to waste and desolation? 
What is 't to me, when you yourselves are cause, 
If your pure maidens fall into the hand 
Of hot and forcing violation ? 
What rein can hold licentious wickedness 
When down the hill he holds his fierce career? 
We may as bootless spend our vain command 
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil, 
As send precepts to the Leviathan 


To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, 

Take pity of your town and of your people, 

Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; 

"Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace 

O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds 

Of deadly murder, spoil, and villainy. 

If not, why, in a moment, look to see 

The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand 

Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ; 

Your fathers taken by the silver beards, 

And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; 

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, 

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused 

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry 

At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen. 

What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid? 

Or, guilty in defense, be thus destroy'd? 

Examples in Various Styles. 


"There's another, — not a sister; — in the happy days gone by 
You 'd have known her — by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; 
Tell her — the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen 
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison) 
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills — of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 
I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or seemed to hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; 
And her glad — blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and weZ£-remembered walk ; 
And her little hand lay lightly, — confidingly in mine ; 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine! " 

[Mrs. Norton. 

g e n t l e t e n d e r . 

" Softly ! She is lying 
With her lips apart. 
Softly I She is dying 
Of a broken heart. 
Whisper! She is going 

To her final rest. 
Whisper ! Life is growing 

Dim within her breast. 
Gently ! She is sleeping ; 

She has breathed her last. 
Gently I While you are weeping, 
She to heaven has passed !" 



" I come ! I come I ye have called me long : 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song I 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violets birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
J3y the green leaves opening as I pass." 

" Away ! away to the mountain's brow, 
Where the trees are gently waving ; 
Away ! away to the vale below, 

"Where the streams are gently laving." 


" I had a dream — which was not all a dream : — 
The bright sun was extinguished ; — and the stars 
Did wander — darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless — and pathless ; and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening — in the moonless air ; 
Morn came, and went, and came, and brought no day" 


threatening conversational. 

Cassius. Brutus, — bay not me ! 
I '11 not endure it.' You forget yourself, 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Brutus. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 
Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not ! 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further ! 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus : 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not ! 

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. 
Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 
Cas. I durst not ? 
Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? 
Bru. For your life, you durst not ! 
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 



"If it will food nothing clso, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced 
me, and hindered mo of half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my 
gains, scorn'd my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated 
mine atonies. And what's his reason? 1 am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? 
hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he 
not fed with the same food ; hurt with the same weapons ; subject to the same 
diseases; heal'd by the same means; warm'd and cool'd by the same summer 
and winter, as a Christian is ? If you stab us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle 
us, do we not laugh ? If you poison us, do we not die ? And if you wrong us, 
shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in 
that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility ? Revenge. If a Chris- 
tian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, 
revenge. The villainy you teach me, /will execute; and it shall go hard but 
I will better the instruction. 11 

Macbeth. I drink to the general joy of the whole table, 
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss ; 
"Would he were here ! to all, and him, we thirst, 
And all to all. 

Lords. Our duties and the pledge. 

Macb. Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! 
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
Which thou dost glare with. 

Lady Macbeth. Think of this, good peers, 

But as a thing of custom : 't is no other ; 
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. 

Macb. What man dare, I dare : 
Approach thou like the rugged Kussian bear, 
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble : or be alive again, 
And dare me to the desert with thy sword ; 
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me 
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow ! 
Unreal mockery, hence ! Why, so, being gone, 
I am a man again. Pray you, sit still. 


" Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing, 
Puppet, which mortals call a king, 
Adorning thee with idle gems, 
With drapery and diadems, 
And scarcely guessing that beneath 
That purple robe and laurel wreath 


There 's nothing but the common slime 
Of human clay and human crime ! 
My rags are not so rich, but they 
Will serve as well to cloak — decay. 

" And night will come ; and thou wilt lie 
Beneath a purple canopy ; 
"With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed 
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed; 
A princess to unclasp thy crest, 
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest. 
Dream, — happy one ! thy dreams will be 
Of danger and of— perfidy ; — 
The Persian lance, — the Carian club 1 — 
I shall sleep sounder in my tub ! 


Hamlet. O God ! your only j?'^-maker. What should a man do but be — 
merry ? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died 
within these two hours. 

Ophelia. Nay, 't is twice two months, my lord. 

Ham. So long ? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I '11 have a suit of 
sables. O heavens! die two months ago and not forgotten yet! Then there's 
hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year ; but, by 'r lady, 
he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the 
hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, "For 0! for 0! the hobby-horse is forgot!" 


Macduff. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight 
With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak : 
See, and then speak yourselves. Awake ! awake ! 
King the alarum-bell. Murder and treason ! 
Banquo and Donalbain ! Malcolm ! awake ! 
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, 
And look on death itself! — up, up, and see 
The great doom's image ! Malcolm ! Banquo ! 
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites 
To countenance this horror ! Bing the bell. 

Lady Macbeth. What 's the business, 
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley 
The sleepers of the house ? speak, speak ! 

Macd. gentle lady ! 

'T is not for you to hear what I can speak: 
The repetition, in a woman's ear, 
Would murder as it fell. — Banquo ! Banquo ! 
Our royal master's murder' d! 



Polonius. "What do you read, my lord? 

Hamlet. Words, words, — icords. 

Pol. What is the matter, my lord? 

Ham. Between whom ? 

Pol. I mean the matter that you read, my lord. 

Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have 
gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and 
plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most 
weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, 
yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down ; for you yourself, sir, should 
be old as I am, — if, like a crab, you could go backward. 


Julia. Why ! do you think I '11 work ? 

Duke. I think 't will happen, wife. 

Julia. What ! rub and scrub your noble palace clean ? 

Duke. Those taper fingers will do it daintily. 

Julia. And dress your victuals (if there be any) ? Oh ! I shall go mad. 



King. Oh ! my offense is rank, — it smells to heaven ; 
It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't, — 
A brother's murder ! Pray can I not, 
Though inclination be as sharp as will : 
My stronger — guilt defeats my strong intent ; 
And, like a man to double business bound, 
I stand in pause where I shall first begin, 
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 
Were thicker than itself with brother's — blood, 
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 
To wash it white — as snow ? Whereto serves mercy 
But to confront the visage of offense? 
And what 's in prayer, but this two-fold force, — 
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, 
Or pardon? d, being down? Then, I'll look up: 
My fault is past. But, oh ! what form of prayer 
Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foid — murder I 
That can not be ; since I am still possess'd 
Of those effects for which I did the murder, — 
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 
May one be pardon' d and retain th' offense ? 
In the corrupted currents of this world 
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice ; 
And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself 
Buys out the law; but 't is not so — above ; 
There is no shuffling, — there the action lies 

and we ourselves compell'd, 


Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 
To give in evidence. What then ? what rests ? 
Try what repentance can : what can it not ? 
Yet what can it, when one can not repent ? 
O wretched state ! O bosom, black as death ! 

limed soul, that, struggling — to be free, 

Art more engaged ! Help, — angels ! make assay : 
Bow, stubborn knees ; and, heart, with strings of steel, 
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 
All may be well. 


Hamlet. Ay, so, God be wi' you ! Now I am alone. 
Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! 
Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit, 
That, from her working, all his visage wann'd ; 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit ? and all for nothing ! 
For Hecuba ! 

What 's Hecuba — to him, or he — to Hecuba, 
That he should weep for her ? What would he do 
Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears, 
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech. 
Make mad the guilty, and appall the free, 
Confound the ignorant ; and amaze, indeed, 
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, — 
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, 
And can say nothing : no, not for a king, 
Upon whose property, and most dear life, 
A damn'd defeat was made. — Am I a coward? 
Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? 
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face ? 
Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i' the throat 
As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ? Ha ! 
Why, I should take it ; for it can not be, 
But I am pigeon-liver' d, and lack gall 
To make oppression bitter, or ere this 

1 should have fatted all the region kites 
With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain! 
Kemorseless, treacherous, cruel, kindless villain ! 
Oh, vengeance ! 

Why, what an ass am I ! This is most brave, 
That I, the son of a dear father murdered, 
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, 


Must, like a wench, unpack my heart with words, 

And fall a cursing, like a very drah, 

A scullion ! 

Fie upon 't ! foh ! About, my brain ! — I have heard 

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, 

Have by the very cunning of the scene 

Been struck so to the soul, that presently 

They have proclaimed their malefactions ; — 

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 

"With most miraculous organ. I '11 have these players 

Play something like the murder of my father 

Before mine uncle : I '11 observe his looks ; 

I '11 tent him to the quick : if he but blench, 

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen 

May be the devil : and the devil hath power 

T' assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 

Out of my weakness, and my melancholy 

(As he is very potent with such spirits), 

Abuses me to damn me. I '11 have grounds 

More relative than this : the play 's the thing 

Wherein I '11 catch the conscience of the king. 


Macbeth. Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee : 
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling — as to sight? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind, & false creation, 
Proceeding from the Tieatf-oppressed brain ? 
I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As that which now I draw. 
Thou marshal 1 st me the way that I was going; 
And such an instrument I was to use. 
Mine eyes are made the fools of the other senses, 
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; 
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 
"Which was not so before. There 's no such thing : 
It is the bloody business which informs 
Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er one half the world 
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
The curtain'd sleep ; now witchcraft — celebrates 
Pale Hecate's offerings ; and withered murder, 
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, 
"Whose howl 7 s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
"With Tarquin's ravishing strides toward his design — 
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 


Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, 

"Which now suits with it. "Whiles I threat, he lives : — 

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 

I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell, 

That summons thee to heaven or to hell. 


"Ah ! mercy on my soul. What is that ? My old friend's ghost? They say 
none but wicked folks walk ; I wish I were at the bottom of a coal-pit. See ! 
how long and pale his face has grown since his death : he never was handsome ; 
and death has improved him very much the wrong way. Pray do not come 
near me! I wished you very well when you were alive; but I could never 
abide a dead man, cheek by jowl with me. Ah, ah, mercy on us ! No nearer, 
pray ; if it be only to take leave of me that you are come back, I could have 
excused you the ceremony with all my heart ; or if you — mercy on us ! no 
nearer, pray; — or if you have wronged any body, as you always loved money a 
little, I give you the word of a frightened Christian, I will pray as long as 
you please for the deliverance or repose of your departed soul. My good, worthy, 
noble friend, do, pray disappear, as ever you would wish your old friend to come 
to his senses again." 


" I love it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 
I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
I 've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs; 
'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart, 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
Would you know the spell ? a mother sat there ! 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

That hallowed seat with a listening ear 

To the gentle words that mother would give 

To fit me to die and teach me to live ; 

She told me shame would never betide 

With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day 

When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray, 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child : 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped, 

My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! 

I felt how much the heart can bear 

When I saw her die in that old arm-chair, 


T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering lip and throbbing brow; 

'T was there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 

And memory still flows with lava-tide. 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 

As the scalding drops start down my cheek; 

But I love it ! I love it ! and can not tear 

My soul from my mother's old arm-chair ! " [Eliza Cook. 

" Three years ago to-day 

"We raised our hands to heaven, 
And on the rolls of muster 

Our names were thirty-seven ; 
There were just a thousand bayonets, 

And the swords were thirty-seven, 
As we took the oath of service 

With our right hands raised to heaven. 

Oh ! 't was a gallant day, 

In memory still adored, 
That day of our sun-bright nuptials 

"With the musket and the sword ! 
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared, 

And beneath a cloudless heaven 
Twinkled a thousand bayonets, 

And the swords were thirty-seven. 

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets 

Two hundred march to-day ; 
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps, 

And hundreds in Maryland clay ; 
And other hundreds, less happy, drag 

Their shattered limbs around, 
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep 

Of the battle-field's holy ground. 

For the swords — one night, a week ago, 

The remnant, just eleven, 
Gathered around a banqueting-board 

"With seats for thirty-seven ; 
There were two limped in on crutches, 

And two had each but a hand 
To pour the wine and raise the cup, 

As we toasted ' Our flag and land!' 

And the room seemed filled with whispers 

As we looked at the vacant seats, 
And, with choking throats, we pushed aside 

The rich but untasted meats : 


Then in silence we brimmed our glasses, 

As we rose up — just eleven, 
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead 

Who had made us thirty-seven." 

[Private Miles O'Keillt. 


"I lov'd thee — long — and dearly, — Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream, — and early, — hath come again; 
I renew — (in my fond vision) — my heart's dear pain, — 
My hope, — and thy derision, — Florence Vane. 

Th' ruin — [lone — and hoary), — th' ruin old, — 
Where thou — didst mark my story (at even told;) — 
That spot, — (th' hues Elysian — of sky — and plain,) — 
I treasure — (in my vision), — Florence Vane. 

Thou — wast lovelier — than th' roses — (in their prime;) 
Thy voice — excell'd the closes — of sweetest rhyme; 
Thy heart — was as a river — without a main; 
Would — I had loved thee never, — Florence Vane! 

But— -fairest, — coldest wonder! thy glorious clay 

Lieth — the green sod under; — alas! th' day! 

And it boots not — t' remember thy disdain — 

T' quicken love's pale ember, — Florence Vane. 

Th' lilies — of th' valley — by young graves — weep; — 

Th' pansies — love t' dally — where maidens sleep; 

May their bloom, — (in beauty vieing,) never wane — 

Where thine earthly part — is lying, — Florence VaneV — [Cooke. 


I should be much for open war, O peers ! 
As not behind in hate, if what was urged, 
(Main reason to persuade immediate war,) 
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success: 
WTien he, (who most excels in fact of arms, 
In what he counsels and in what excels 
Mistrustful,) grounds his courage on despair. — 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, — after some dire — revenge. 
First, what — revenge ? The towers of Heaven are filled 
With armed watch, that render all — access — 
Impregnable : oft on the bordering deep 
Encamp — their legions, or with obscure wing 
Scout far and wide into the realm of night, 
Scorning surprise ! Or could we break our way 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 
With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light; yet our great Enemy,- — 
All incorruptible, would on his throne 



Bit iot polluted,— and. the ethereal mold, — 

Incapable of stain, — would soon expel 

Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 

Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope — 

Is flat despair : we must exasperate 

The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage, — 

And that must end us : that must be our cure, — 

To be — no more. Sad cure ! for who would lose, — 

(Though full of pain,) — this intellectual being, — 

Those thoughts that wander through eternity, — 

To perish rather, — swallowed up and lost 

In the wide womb of uncreated night, 

Devoid of sense and motion? and who — knoivs, — 

Let this be good, — whether our angry Foe 

Can give it, or will ever ? how he can, 

Is doubtful! that he never will, — is sure. 

"Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, 

Belike through impotence, or unaware, 

To give his enemies their wish, and end 

Them in his anger, whom — his anger saves 

To punish endless? — Wherefore cease we then? 

Say they who counsel war ; we are decreed, 

Reserved, and destined to eternal woe ; 

"Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, 

"What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 

Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 

What ! when we fled amain, pursued and struck 

"With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 

The deep to shelter us ? this hell then seemed 

A refuge from those wounds : or when we lay 

Chained — on the burning lake ? that sure was worse. 

"What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 

And plunge us — in the flames? or — from above 

Should intermitted vengeance arm again 

His red — right hand to plague us ? what if all 

Her stores were opened, and this firmament 

Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, — 

Impendent horrors, threatening — hideous — fall — 

One day upon our heads? while vie, perhaps 

Designing — or exhorting glorious war, 

Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, 

Each on his rock — transfixed, the sport and prey 

Of racking whirlwinds; — or forever sunk 

Under yon boiling ocean, wrapp'd in chains; 

There to converse with everlasting groans, 

Unrespited, — unpitied, — unreprieved, — 

Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse. 



The storm o'er the ocean flew furious and fast, 

And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast, 

And heavily labor'd the gale-beaten ship, 

Like a stout-hearted swimmer — the spray at his lip ; 

And dark was the sky o'er the mariner's path, 

Except when the lightning illumed it in wrath. 

A young mother knelt in the cabin below, 

And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, 

She prayed to her God 'mid the hurricane wild, 

" Father ! have mercy, look down on my child." 

It pass'd—- the fierce whirlwind careered on its way, 

And the ship, like an arrow, divided the spray; 

Her sails glimmer'd white in the beams of the moon, 

And the breeze up aloft seem'd to whistle, to whistle a tune; 

And the wind up aloft seem'd to whistle, to whistle a tune. 

There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam, 

For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home; 

The young mother press'd her fond babe to her breast, 

And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest ; 

And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, 

And looked with delight on the face of his bride. 

" Oh, happy," said he, " when our roaming is o'er, 

"We '11 dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore ; 

Already in fancy its roof I descry, 

And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky 

Its garden so green and vine-covered wall, 

The kind friends awaiting to welcome us all, 

And the children that sport by the old oaken tree." 

Ah, gently the ship glided over the sea. 
Hark ! what was that ? Hark x hark to the shout ! — 
Fire ! then a tramp and a rout, 
And an uproar of voices arose in the air ; 
And the mother knelt down, and the half-spoken prayer 
That she offered to God in her agony wild 

Was, "Father, have mercy, look down, look down on my child!" 
She flew to her husband, she clung to his side, 
Oh ! there was her refuge whate'er might betide. 

Fire ! fire ! it was raging above and below ; 
And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight, 
And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light. 
'T was vain o'er the ravage the waters to drip, 
The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship ; 
And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher — 
O God ! it is fearful to perish by fire. 
Alone with destruction, alone on the sea, 
Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee ! 


Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave, 

They lowered the boat, a mere speck on the wave ; 

First entered the mother, enfolding her child, 

It knew she caressed it, look'd upward and smiled. 

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away, 

And mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day ; 

And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about 

The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out. 

"Ho ! a sail ! Ho ! a sail ! " cried the man on the lee; 

"Ho! a sail! " and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea. 

They see us, they see us, the signal is waved ; 

They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us, 

They bear down upon us, the signal is waved. 

Thank God ! thank God ! we 're saved. 

MOTHER AND POET.— Mks. Browning. 
Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861. 
Dead ! one of them — shot — by the sea — in the east, 

And one of them — shot — in the west by the sea. 
Dead! both — my boys! When you sit — at the feast — 
And are wanting — a great song — for Italy — -free ! 
Let none — look at me ! 

Yet — I was a poetess — only — last year, 

And good — at my art, (for a woman, — men said.) 
But this woman, — this, — who is agonized here, 

The east sea — and west sea — rhyme on — in her head — 
For ever — instead. 
What art — can a woman — be good at ? Oh, vain ! 

What art — is she good at, but — hurting her breast 
"With the milk-teeth. — of babes, and a smile — at the pain ? 

Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong — as you press 'd, — 
And I— proud, — by that test. 
What art 's — for a woman ? To hold on her knees 

Both darlings ! to feel all their arms — round her throat 
Cling, — strangle — a little ! To sew by degrees, 

And 'broider — the long-clothes — and neat little coat! 
To dream — and — to dote. 
To teach them ... It stings — there ! i" made them indeed 

Speak plain — the word — country. I taught them (no doubt) 
That a country 's — a thing — men — should die — for — at need. 

I — prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant — turned out. 

And when their eyes — flashed .... O my beautiful eyes ! 

I — exulted! nay, let them go forth — at the wheels 
Of the guns, — and denied not. But — (then) — the surprise, 

"When one sits quite alone ! Then — one weeps, then — one kneels ! 
[God! how the house feels!) 


AX first — happy news came, — in gay letters, — moiled — 
With my kisses, — of camp-life — and glory! and how 

They both loved me, and — soon, — coming home — to be spoiled, 
In return — would fan off every fiy — from my brow 
With their green — laurel bough. 

Then — was triumph — at Turin : " Ancona — was free ! " 
And some one — came out of the cheers — (in the street, — 

With a, face — pale — as stone),— to say something to me. 
My Guido — was dead! I fell down — at his feet, 
While they — cheer' d — in the street. 

I bore it; friends — sooth' d me: my grief — look'd sublime — 
As the ransom — of Italy ! One boy — remained — 

To be leant on — and umlked with, — recalling the time — 

When the first — grew immortal, — while both of us — strained 
To the height — he had gained. 

And letters — still came, — shorter, — sadder, — more strong, — 
Writ — (now) but in one hand, ("/was not to faint ! 

One — loved me — for two .... would be with me — ere long : 
And — '■Viva — V Italia /' — he died for our saint, 
Who forbids — our complaint.") 

'My Nanni — would add — " He was safe, — and aware — 

Of a presence — th't turned off the balls .... was imprest — 

It was Guido — himself, who knew — what I could bear, 
And — how — 't was impossible, — (quite dispossessed,) — 
To live on — for the rest." 

On which — (without pause) up the telegraph-line 

Swept smoothly — the next news — from Gaeta — "Shot! 

Tell his mother" Ah, ah! "his 11 — "their" mother: — not — "mine." 
No voice — says "my mother" — again to me. What! 
You think Guido — forgot? 

Are souls — straight — so happy — th't, — dizzy — with heaven, — 
They drop — earth's affections, — conceive not — of woe ? 

I think not. Themselves — were too lately — -forgiven — 
Through that Love — and Sorrow — which reconciled so — 
The Above, — and Below. 

O Christ — of the seven woiinds, — who look' dst — (through the dark) — 

To the face — of thy mother ! consider, I pray, — 
How we — common mothers — stand desolate, mark, — 

Whose sons, — (not being Christs,) die — with eyes — turned away — 
And no — last — word — to say ! 

Both boys — dead! but that 's — out of nature. We all 

Have been patriots, — yet — each house — must always — keep one", 

'T were imbecile — hewing out roads — to a wall. 

And, when Italy 's — made, — for what end — is it done — 
If we — have not a son? 


Ah, ah, ah I when Gacta's taken, — what then? 

When the fair — wicked queen — sits no more — at her sport — 
Of the /7>e-balls — of death — crashing souls — out of men? 

When the gims — of Cavalli — (with final retort) — 
Have cut the game short; 

When Venice — and Kome — keep their new jubilee, — 

When your flag — takes all heaven — for its white, — green, — and red, 

When you — have your country — from mountain — to sea, — 
When King Victor — has Italy's crown — on his head, 
(And I — have — my dead!) — 

What then ? Do not mock me. (Ah, — ring your bells — low, 
And burn your lights— faintly.) My country — is there, 

Above the star — pricked — by the last peak of snow. 
My Italy 's — there ! with my brave — civic Pah', 
To disfranchise — despair ! 

Forgive me. Some women — bear children — in strength, 
And bite back — the cry — of their pain — in self -scorn ; 

But — the birth-pangs — of nations — will wring us (at length) — 
Into wail — such as this ! — and we sit on — (forlorn) — 
When the maw-child — is born. 


Say, — (Doctor,) may I not have rum 

To quench — this burning thirst — within? 
Here, — on this cursed bed I lie, 

And can not get one drop of gin. 
I ask not health, — nor even life: — 

Life! what a curse — it's been to me! 
I 'd rather sink — in deepest hell 

Than drink — again — its misery. 

But, (Doctor,) may I not have rum? 

One drop — alone is all I crave: 
Grant — this small boon ; — I ask no more. 

Then — I '11 defy — even the grave: 
Then, (without fear,) I'll fold my arms, 

And bid the monster — strike his dart 
To haste me — from this world of v?oe, 

And claim his own, — this ruin'd heart/ 

A thousand curses — on his head 

Who gave me first — the poison' d bowl, — 
Who taught me first — this bane — to drink ; — 

Drink — death — and ruin — to my soul. 
My soul ! Oh ! cruel, — horrid thought ! 

Full well — I know — thy certain fate; 
With what instinctive horror— shrinks 

The spirit — from that awful state ! 


Lost! lost! I know — -forever lost! 
. To me — no ray of hope — can come: 
M y fate — is sealed; my doom is . 

But give me — rum; I will have rum. 
But, (Doctor,) don't you see him — there? 

In that dark corner — low he sits ; 
See! how he sports — his fiery tongue, — 

And at me — burning brimstone spits ! 

Say, — don't you see— this demon face? 
Does no one — hear? will no one — come? 

Oh ! save me ! save me ! I will give — 
But rum! — I must have, — will have — rum. 

Ah ! now — he 's gone ! once more — I 'mfree! 
He — (the boasting knave — and liar) — 

He said — th't he would take me off- 
Down — to . But there! my head 's on fire! 

Fire! water! help! come, — haste! I'll die! 

Come — take me from this burning bed! 
The smoke! I'm choking! can not cry! 

There! now it's catching — at my head! 
But see! again — that demon 's come! 

Look! there — he peeps through yonder crack! 
Mark — how his burning eyeballs flash! 

How fierce he grins! what — brought him back? 
There, — stands his burning coach of fire ! 

He smiles, — and beckons me — to come! 
What are those words — he's written there? 

"In hell we never want — for rum! 11 

One loud — one piercing shriek — was heard; 

One yell — rang out — upon the air ; 
One sound, and one — alone — came forth, — 

The victim's cry — of wild despair. 
Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell! 

A spirit 's sent — to bear me doion; 
There, — in the regions — of the lost, 

I sure — will wear — a fiery crown! 
Damrid — (I know,) without a hope! 

One moment — more — and then — I'll comet 
And there — I '11 quench — my awful thirst — 

With boiling ! burning ! fiery rum ! 


The night wind — (with a desolate moan) — swept by; 
And the old shutters — of the- turret swung 
Creaking — upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
(As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,) 
Struggled aslant — the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious — when it went — and came. 


The fire — beneath his crucible — was low : 
Yet still — it burned ; and ever, (as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable,) he raised himself — 
Upon his wasted arm and stirred the coals — 
"With occult energy, and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye — 
Felt— -faint — within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and — (with unclosed lips) 
Muttered a curse — on death! 

The silent room, 
(From its dim corners) mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath; the humming — in the fire — 
Had the distinctness — of a knell; and when — 
Duly — the antique horologe — beat one 
He drew a vial — (from beneath his head) 
And drank. And instantly — his lips compressed, 
And (with a shudder — in his skeleton frame) 
He rose — with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, — and communed — with himself: — 

I did not think to die — 
Till I had finished — what I had to do; 
I thought — to pierce th' eternal secret through — 

"With this — my mortal eye; 
Ifelt — God! it seemeth — even now 
This can not be the death-dew — on my brow! 

And yet — it is ; I feel 
(Of this dull sickness — at my heart) afraid; 
And in my eyes — the deaM-sparks— -flash — and fade; 

And somethiyig — seems to steal 
Over my bosom — like a frozen hand, — 
Binding its pulses — with an icy band. 

And this — is death ! But why — 
Feel I this recoil ? It can not be 
The immortal spirit — shuddereth — to he free! 

Would it not leap — to fly 
Like a chain' d eaglet — at its parent's call? 
I fear, — I fear — that this poor life — is all! 

Yet thus — to pass away ! — 
To live — but for a hope — that mocks — at last, — 
To agonize, — to strive, — to watch, — to fast, 

To waste — the light of day, 
Night's better beauty,— feeling,— fancy, — thought, 
All — that we have — and are,- — for this, — for naught! 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win 
Something — to satisfy this thirst — within ! 

I would know something — here! 
Break for me — but one seal — that is unbroken / 
Speak for me — but one word — that is unspoken! 


Vain, — vain! — my brain — is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs — come fast — and thick, 

And I saw freezing, — burning, — 
Dying! O God! if I might only live! 
My vial Ha ! it thrills me, — I revive. 

Aye, — were not man to die, — 
He were too mighty — for this narrow sphere! 
Had he hut time — to hrood on knowledge— here, — 

Could he hut train his eye, — 
Might he hut wait — the mystic word — and hour, — 
Only his Maker — would transcend — his power! 

Earth — has no mineral strange, — 
Th' illimitahle air — no hidden wings, — 
Water — no quality — in covert springs, 

And. fire — no power — to change, — 
Seasons — no mystery, — and stars — no spell, 
"Which theunwasting soul — might not compel. 

Oh ! hut for time — to track 
The upper stars — into the pathless sky, — 
To see th' invisible spirits, eye — to eye, — 

To hurl the lightning back, — 
To tread — unhurt — the sea's dim-lighted halls, — 
To chase Day's chariot — to the ho?~izon-v? alls, — 

And more, — much more, — for now — 
The fo/e-sealed fountains — of my nature move, — 
To nurse — and purify — this human love, — 

To clear the godlike brow 
Of weakness — and mistrust, and how it down, — 
Worthy — and beautiful, — to the mwcA-loved one, — 

This — were — indeed — to feel 
The soz^-thirst — slaken — at the living stream, — 
To live, — O God! that life — is but a dream ! 

And death Aha ! I reel ; — 

Dim, — dim, — I faint, — darkness comes o'er my eye; — 
Cover me! save me! God of heaven! I die! 

1 T was morning, — and the old man — lay alone. 
No friend — had closed his eyelids, — and his lips, 
(Open — and ashy pale,) th' expression wore 
Of his c/ea/A-struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples — thin — and wild; 
His frame — was wasted, — and his features — wan 
And haggard — as with want; — and in his palm 
His nails were driven — deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony — had wrung him sore. 



The storm — was raging still. The shutter — swung 
Creaking as harshly — in the fitful wind, 
And all without — went on, — as aye it will, 
Sunshine — or tempest, — reckless — that a heart 
Is breaking, — or has broken, in its change. 

Thej?re — beneath the crucible — was out: 
The vessels of his mystic art — lay around, 
Useless — and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashioned them, and the small rod, 
(Familiar to his touch — for three-score years,) 
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements — at its master's will. 

And thus — had passed — from its unequal frame — 
A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle — stricken 
From his high soaring down, — an instrument — 
Broken — with its own compass. Oh, how poor — 
Seems the rich gift of genius when it lies, 
(Like the adventurous bird — that hath outflown 
His strength — upon the sea,) — ambition- wrecked, — 
A thing — the thrush might pity — as she sits — 
Brooding in quiet — on her lowly nest ! 


Exercise in Eapid and Parenthetical Movements of Voice — Echo — 
How to give Imitations — Examples. 

Critical attention must be observed in articulating the words. 
After we have thoroughly conquered our indistinctness of articu- 
lation, we must acquire the facility of rapid and clearly enunciated 
utterances. There are many passages that require a spirited, brilliant, 
and rapid rendering, else their intention is not expressed. 

"Let Stanley charge — (with spur of fire — 
"With Chester charge, and Lancashire), — 
Full upon Scotland's central host, — 
Or victory and England 's lost ! " 

"Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek — like fire, — 
And shook his very frame for ire; 

And — ' This to me I ' — he said ; — 
'An' 'twere not — for thy hoary beard, — 
Such hand — as Marmion's — had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head! 


And, first, — I tell thee, — haughty peer, 
He who does England's — message here, 
(Although the meanest in her state,) 
May well, — proud Angus, — he thy mate; 
And, Douglas, — more — I tell thee here, 
High, rapid. (Even in thy pitch of pride, — 

Here, in thy hold, — thy vassals near,) — 
■ s a is e ; n more S rSd hin paren " ( Na y> never l°° k upon y0 ur lord, 

And lay your hand upon your sword,) — 

Returning to pitch of first t j._n xi .l-l j j. -i .g j i 

parenthesis. I tell thee, — thou 'rt defied! 

And if thou said'st I am not peer 

And now to continuation of m t-i-oj? ti 

pitch before the first paren- 1 o any lord in Scotland here, 

Lowland — or Airland, — far — or near, — 
Lord Angus, — thou hast lied ! ' — 
Slow and descriptive. On the Earl's cheek — the flush of rage — 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age. 
Fierce — he broke forth : '■And dar'st thou then 
Rapid anger. T' beard the lion in his den, 
The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? — 
No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no ! — 
Loud calling. Up drawbridge, grooms! — what, warder, ho! 
Let the portcullis fall.' 
Lord Mar m ion turned, — well was his need, — 
And dashed — the rowels — in his steed, — 
Like arrow — through the archway — sprung, — 
The ponderous grate behind him rung: 
To pass — there was such scanty room, 
The bars, — descending, — razed his plume." — [Scott. 

Example of Rapid Enunciation. 

"By torch and trumpet fast array' d, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade; 
And furious every charger neigh' d 

To join the dreadful revelry. 
Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 

Far flashed the red artillery." 

"Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye? 

Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 

'Tis the crushing of thunders, the groan of the sphere! 
He springs from his hammock; — he flies to the deck; — 

Amazement confronts him with images dire; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; 

The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire ! 


Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save. 
Unseen hands of — spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel — flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!" 

Iii the last stanza the voice falls from the loud and rapid move- 
ments of excitement to the slow and conversational pitch. In the 
two last lines it descends to the very slow and grave tones, while on 
the word "spirits" it falls to a whisper, and the word "flaps" is ren- 
dered in a tremulous half-whisper. A full rhetorical pause is necessary 
before both of these words to give them proper effect. 

" NO." By Eliza Cook. 

Would you learn — the bravest thing — 

That man — can ever do ? 
Would you be an uncrown' d king, 

Absolute — and true? 
Would you seek to emulate 

All we learn in story 
Of the moral, — -just, — and great, 

Rich — in real glory ? 
Would you lose much bitter care 

In your lot below ? 
Bravely speak out — when — and where — 

'T is right to utter— "No." 

Learn to speak this little word — 

In its proper place ; — 
Let no timid doubt be heard, 

Clothed with skeptic grace ; 
Let thy lips — without disguise — 

Boldly pour it out, 
Though a thousand — dulcet lies 

Keep hovering about. 
For be sure — our hearts — would lose 

Future years — of woe 
If our courage — could refuse — 

The present hour — with — "No." 

When temptation's form — would lead 

To some pleasant wrong ; — 
When she tunes her hollow reed — 

To the syren's song ; — 
When she offers bribe — and smile, ' 

And our conscience feels 
There is naught — but shining guile 

In the gifts she deals ; 
Then, oh! then let courage rise 
• To its strongest flow ; 

Show — that ye are brave — as wise, 

And firmly answer — "No." 


Hearts — that are too often given 

Like street merchandise ; — 
Hearts — that — like bought slaves — are driven — 

In fair freedom 1 s guise; — 
Yet — that poison soul — and mind 

With perjury's foul stains ; 
Yet — who let the cold world bind — 

In joyless marriage chains ; 
Be true — unto yourselves — and God, 

Let rank — and fortune go ; 
If love — light not the altar spot, — 

Let feeling answer — "No" 

Men — with goodly spirits blest, 

Willing — to do right, 
Yet who stand — with wavering breast 

Beneath Persuasion's might, 
When companions seek — to taunt 

Judgment — into sin ; 
When the loud laugh — fain would daunt 

Your better voice — within ; 
Oh ! be sure — ye '11 never meet 

More insidious foe ; 
But strike the coward — to j owe feet 

By Reason's watchword — "No." 
Ah, how many thorns — we wreathe 

To twine our brows around, 
By not knowing — when — to breathe 

This important sound ! 
Many a breast — has rued the day 

When it reckoned less — 
Of fruits — upon the moral — "Nay" 

Than flowers — upon the — "Fes." 
Many a sad — repentant thought — 

Turns — to " long ago," 
When a luckless fate was wrought 

By want of saying — "No." 
Few — have learned to speak this word 

When it should be spoken ; 
Resolution — is deferred, 

Vows to virtue — broken : 
More of courage is required 

This one word — to say 
Than to stand — where shots are fired 

In the battle fray. 
Use it fitly — and ye '11 see 

Many a lot below — 
May be schooled — and nobly ruled — 

By power — to utter — "No." 


Out of the woods — at midnight 

The swift — red hunters — came ; 
The prairie — was their hunting-groxmci, 

The bison — was their game : 
Their spears — were of glist'ning silver, 

Their crests — were of blue and gold ; 
Driven — by the panting winds of heav'n, — 

Their shining chariots — rolled.— 
Over that level hwiting-groxmd, 

Oh, what a strife — was there ! 
What a shouting ! — what a threat ning cry ! — 

What a murmur — on the air ! 
Their garments — over the glowing wheels 

Streamed — backward, — red and fair ; 
They flaunted — their purple banners 

In the face — of each pale star. 
Under their tread — the autumn flowers 

By myriads — withering lay : 
(Poor things ! — th't from those golden wheels 

Could nowhere — shrink away !) 
Close, — and crashing together, 

The envious chariots — rolled ; — 
While anon, before his fellows, — 

Leaped out — some hunter bold. 
Their — hot breath, — thick and lowering, 

Above — their wild eyes — hung, 
And around — their frowning foreheads, 

Like wreaths of night-shade, hung. 
u The bisons ! ho, the bisons ! " 

They cried — and answered back — 
(Poor herds of frightened creatures 

With such hunters — on their track !) 

With a weary, — lumbering swiftness 

They sought — the river's side, — 
Driven — by those hunters — from their sleep 

Into its chilling tide. 
Some face — their foe — with anguish, 

Dilating — their brute eyes ; — 
The spears of silver strike them low, — 

And dead — each suppliant lies. 

Now by the brightening river — 

The red hunters — stand — at bay; 
Vain — their appalling splendor — 

The river shields their prey ! 
Into the waves with baffled rage 

They leap — in death 1 s despite ; — 
Their golden wheels roll — roaring in, 

And leave the withered night. 


The ecJw is a re-percussion or reflected sound, and is sometimes 
repeated several times, always growing fainter in each reverber- 

When giving imitations of this in recitations, it is simply neces- 
sary, after speaking the word to be echoed, to pause long enough 
for the supposed sound to return from a distance; then utter it 
in a softer tone of voice, making it softer and less distinct in each 

" ' Gitche Man'ito, the mighty ! ' 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that hitter hour of anguish, 
1 Give your children food, O father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha!' 
Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Bang that cry of desolation ; 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, — 
[Echo.] Minnehaha ! — Minnehaha ! " 

BUGLE SONG. Tennyson. 

The splendor falls on cas^e-walls, 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying: 

[Echo.] Blow, bugle, blow. 

Blow, bugle, blow; answer, echoes, dying, — dying, — dying. 

[Echo.] dying, dying, dying. 

Oh, hark ! Oh, hear ! how thin — and clear, 

And thinner, — clearer, farther going ! 
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elf -land— faintly blowing ! 
Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle; — answer, echoes, dying, — dying, dying. 

[Echo as above.] 
O love ! — they die — in yon rich sky, 

They faint — on field, on hill, on river; 
Our echoes — roll — from soul — to soul, 
And grow — forever — and fokever. 
Blow, bugle, — blow ; set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, — echoes, answer, dying, — dying, — dying. 


Echo in the hollow glen, 

Wake ye from your stilly sleep; 
Let us hear your voice again, 

Clear and deep. [Echo.] Clear and deep. 
Warble for US, Echo, pray ! [Echo.] Warble for us, Echo, pray! 

Tell-tale spirit, listen ! [Echo.] Listen 1 

NOW OUr morning SOng repeat ; [Echo.] Now our morning song repeat. 

Answer now, Echo, pray! [Echo.] o pray! 


Oh! many and many a day — before we met 

I knew — some spirit — walked the world alone, 

Awaiting the Beloved — from afar ; 

And I — was the anointed — chosen one 

Of all the world — to crown — her queenly brows — 

With the imperial crown — of human love, — 

And light its glory — in her happy eyes. 

I saw not — (with mine eyes — so full of tears,) 

But heard — Faith's low — sweet si7iging — in the night, 

And, — (groping — through the dark?iess,) touched — G-od's liand. 

I knew — my sunshine — someivhere — warmed the world, 

Though i— trode — darkling — in a perilous way; 

And I should reach it — in His own — good time, 

Who sendeth sun, — and dew, — and love — for all : 

My heart — might toil on — blindly, but, — (like earth,) — 

It kept sure footing — through the thickest gloom. 

Earth, — (with her thousand voices,) talked of thee; — 

Sweet winds, — and whispering leaves, and piping birds; 

The trickling sim-light and the flashing dews; 

Eve's crimson air — and light of twinkling gold ; 

Sp>ring's kindled greenery, and her breath of balm; 

The happy hum — and stir — of summer woods, 

And the light dropping — of the silver rain. 

Thine eyes — oped with their rainy lights — and laughters, 

In April's tearful heaven — of tender blue, 

With all the changeful beauty — melting through them, 

And dawn — and sunset — ended — in thy face. 

And standing, — as in God's own joreserace-chamber, 

When silence — lay like sleep — upon the world, 

And it seemed rich — to die — alone — with night, 

Like Moses — 'neath the kisses — of God's lips, 

The stars — have trembled — thro' the holy hush, 

And smiled down tenderly, — and said to me — 

The love — hid for me — in a budding breast, 

Like incense — folded in a young jlo wer's heart. 

Strong — as a sea-swell — came the wave of wings, — 

Strange trouble — trembled thro' my inner depths, 


And answering wings — have sprung within my soul ; 

And — from the dumb, — waste places — of the dark 

A voice has breathed — " She comes ! " and ebVd again ; 

"While all my life — stood listening — for thy coming. 

Oh ! I have guessed — thy presence, out of sight, 

And felt it — in the beating — of my heart ! 

When all — was dark — within — sweet thoughts would come, 

As starry guests — come — golden — down the gloom, — 

And thro' night's lattice — smile a rare delight; 

While, (lifted — for the dear — and distant dawn,) 

The face of all things — wore a happy light, — 

Like those dream-smiles — which are the speech of sleep. 

Thus — love — lived on, — and strengthen d — with the days, — 

Lit — by its own true light — within my heart, 

Like a live diamond — burning — in the dark. 

Then — came there One, — a mirage — of the dawn. 

She swam on toward me — in her sumptuous triumph, 

Voluptuously upborne, — (like Aphrodite,) — 

Upon a meadowy swell — of emerald sea. 

A ripe, — serene — smile, — affluent graciousness, — 

Hung, — (like a shifting radiance,) — on her motion, — 

As bickering hues — upon the dove's neck — burn. 

Her lip — might flush a wrinkled life — in bloom ! 

Her eyes — were an omnipotence — of love ! 

"Oh, yes!" — (I said,) "if such — your glories be, 

Sure — 't is a warm heart — -feedeth ye — with light." 

The silver throbbing — of her laughter — pulsed 

The air — with music — rich — and resonant, — 

As — from the deep heart — of a summer night 

Some bird, — (in sudden sparklmgs — of fine sound,) — 

Hurries its startled being — into song; 

And, (from her sumptuous wealth — of golden hair — 

Unto the delicate — pearly finger-tvp,) 

Fresh beauty — trembled from its thousand springs: 

And, — (standing in the outer porch of life,) 

All eager — for the tempted mysteries, 

With a rich heart — as full of fragrant love — 

As May's musk-roses are — of morning's wine, 

What marvel — if I questioned not her brow, 

For they?ame-signet — of the hand divine, 

Or gauged it — for the crown — of my large love ? 

I plunged — to clutch the pearl — of her babbling beauty, 

Like some swift diver — in a shallow stream, 

That smites his life out — on its heart of stone. 

Ah! how my life did run — with. fire — and tears! 

With what a TVfrm-pulse — my love did beat ! 

But she, — (mse-lined — without — God pity her!) 

Was cold — at heart — as snow — in last year's nest, — 



Ami struck, — (like death,) — into my burning brain. 

My (ears — (th't rained out life) she froze — in falling, 

And wore them, — (jewel-like,) — to deck her triumph! 

But love — is never lost, — tho' hearts run waste; 

Its tides — may gush — 'mid swirling, — swathing deserts. 

Where no green leaf — drinks up precious life; 

Yet love doth — {evermore) — enrich itself; — 

It? bitterest waters — run some — golden sands! 

No star — goes down — but climbs — in other skies; 

The rose — of sunset — folds its glory up 

To burst again — from out the heart of dawn; 

And love — is never lost, — tho' hearts run waste, 

And sorrow — makes the chastened heart — a seer; 

The deepest dark — reveals the starriest hope, — 

And Faith — can trust her heaven — behind — the veil. 


All thoughts, — all passions, — all delights, 
Whatever — stirs — this mortal frame, 

All are — but ministers — of Love, 
And feed — his sacred flame. 

Oft — in my waking dreams — do I 
Live o'er again — that happy hour, 

"When — (midway) on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine — (stealing o'er the scene) 
Had blended — with the lights of eve; 

And she — was there, (my hope, — my joy!) 
My own — dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned — against the armed man, 
The statue — of the armed knight ; 

She stood — and listen' d — to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows — hath she of her own, 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 

She loves me best — whene'er I sing 
The songs — th't make her grieve. 

I played a soft — and doleful air, 
I sang an old — and moving story, — 

An old — rude song, th't suited well 
That ruin — wild — and hoary. 

She listened — with a flitting blush, 

With downcast eyes — and modest grace; 

For well she knew — I could not choose 
But gaze — upon her face. 


I told her — of the Knight — that wore 

Upon his shield — a burning brand; 
And — th't (for ten long years) — he wooed 

The Lady — of the Land. 

I told her — how he pined : — and, ah ! 

The low, — the deep, — the pleading tone — 
With which — I sang another's love, 

Interpreted — rny own. 

She listened — with a flitting blush, 

"With downcast eyes — and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me — th't I gazed 

Too fondly — on her face. 

But — when I told — the cruel scorn 

Which crazed — this bold — and lovely Knight, 

And — that he cross' d — the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested — day — nor night; 

But — sometimes — from the savage den, 

And — sometimes — from the darksome shade, 

And — sometimes — starting up — (at once) — 
In green — and sunny glade, — 

There came — and looked him — (in the face) — 

An angel — beautiful — and bright ! 
And — th't he knew — it was a Fiend — 

(This miserable Knight!) 

And — th't, unknowing — what he did, 

He leaped amid a murderous band, — 
And saved from outrage — worse than death — 

The Lady — of the Land; 

And — how she wept — and clasp'd his knees, 

And — how she tended him — in vain, — 
And — ever — strove to expiate 

The scorn — th't crazed his brain ; 

And — th't she nursed him — in a cave; 

And — how his madness — went away 
When — (on the yellow /or<?s£-leaves) — 

A dying man — he lay ; 

His dying words, — hut when I reached 

That tenderest strain — of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice — and pausing harp 

Disturbed her soul — with pity ! 

All impulses — of soul — and sense — 

Had thrilled — my guileless Genevieve! 
The music — and the doleful tale, — 

The rich — and balmy 



And hopes, — and fears — th't kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng ; 
And gentle wishes — long subdued, 

Subdued — and cherish' d — long ! 
She wept — with pity — and delight, 

She blushed — with love — and virgin shame; 
And, — (like the murmur — of a dream,) 

I heard her — breathe my name. 
Her bosom heaved, — she stept aside; 

(As conscious — of my look, she stept ;) — 
Then — suddenly — (with timorous eye) 

She fled — to me — and wept. 
She half inclosed me — with her arms, 

She pressed me — with a meek embrace ; 
And, — (bending back her head,) looked up 

And gazed — upon my face. 
'T was partly — love, — and partly— fear. 

And partly — 't was a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel — than see — 

The swelling — of her heart. 
I calmed her fears ; and she was calm, 

And told her love — (with virgin pride;) 
And so — I won — my Genevieve ! 

My bright — and beauteous bride ! 

EDWARD GRAY. Tennyson. 

Sweet Emma Moreland — (of yonder town) — 
Met me — walking on yonder way, — 

"And have you lost — your heart ?" — (she said;) 
"And are you married yet, — Edward Gray ? " 

Sweet Emma Moreland — spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping — I turned away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, — love — no more — 
Can touch — the heart — of Edward Gray. 

Ellen Adair — she loved me well, — 

Against her father' s — and mother's will: 

To-day — I sat — (for an hour,) and wept — 
By Ellen's grave, — on the windy hill. 

Shy she was, — and I thought her cold; 

Thought her proud, — and fled — over the sea; 
Fill'd I was — with folly — and spite, — 

When Ellen Adair — was dying — for me. 

Cruel, — cruel — the vwrds I said ! 

Cruelly — came they back — to-day : 
'You're too slight — and fickle,' — (I said,) 

1 To trouble — the heart — of Edward Gray.' 


There — I put my face — in the grass — 

Whispered, — '■Listen — to my despair : 
I repent me — of all — I did: 

Speak a little, — Ellen Adair!' 

Then — I took a pencil, — and wrote 

On the mossy stone, — (as I lay,) — 
l Here — lies the body — of Ellen Adair; 

And here — the heart — of Edward Gray I 1 

Love — may come, — and love — may go, 

And fly, — (like a bird,) from tree — to tree: 
But 7— will love — no more, — no more — 

Till Ellen Adair — come back to me. 

Bitterly — wept I — over the stone : 

Bitterly weeping — I turned away : 
There — lies the body — of Ellen Adair I 

And there — the heart — of Edward — Gray ! " 


Oh ! that the desert — were my dwelling-ipil&ce, 

With one fair spirit — for my minister, 
That I might all forget — the human race, 

And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Te elements! — (in whose ennobling stir 

I feel myself exalted) — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 

In deeming such — inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse — can rarely — be our lot. 

There is a pleasure — in the pathless woods; 

There is a rapture — on the lonely shore ; 
There is . . society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man — the less, but nature — more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been — before, 

To mingle — with the universe, — and feel — 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all — conceal. 

Boll on, thou deep — and dark blue ocean, — roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets — sweep — over thee in vain ; j 
Man — marks the earth — with ruin ; — his control 

Stops — with the shore ; — upon the watery plain — 
The wrecks are all thy deed, — nor doth — remain 

A shadow — of man's ravage, — save his own, 
When (for a moment,) like a drop of rain, 

He sinks — into thy depths — with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, — unknelled, — uncojflned, — and unknown. 


His stops— are not upon thy paths; — thy fields — 

Are not a spoil — for him; — thou dost arise, — 
And shake him from thee; — the vile strength — he wields 

For earth's destruction, thou — dost all despise, 
Spurning him — from thy bosom — to the skies. 

And send'st him — [shivering) in thy playful spray, 
And howling — to his gods, — where — haply — lies 

His petty hope, in some near port — or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there — let him lay. 

The armaments — which thunderstrike — the walls 

Of rock-built cities, — bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble — in their capitals ; — 

The oak leviathans, — whose huge ribs — make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 

Of lord — of thee, — and arbiter — of war; 
These — are thy toys, — and, — as the snowy flake, 

They melt — into thy yest of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride — or spoils — of Trafalgar. 

The shores — are empires, — changed in all — save thee. 

Assyria, — Greece, — Rome, — Carthage, — what are they? 
Thy waters — wasted them — while they were free, 

And many a tyrant — since; their shores — obey 
The stranger, — slate, — or savage; their decay — 

Has dried up realms — to deserts: — not so thou, 
Unchangeable, — save thy wild waves' play, — 

Time — writes no wrinkle — on thine azure brow; — 
Such . . as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, — where the Almighty's form — 

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, — 
Calm — or convulsed — in breeze, — or gale, — or storm, 

Icing the pole, — or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving; boundless, — endless, — and sublime — 

The image — of eternity — the throne — 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime — 

The monsters — of the deep are made; each zone — 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth — dread, — -fathomless, — alone. 

And I have loved thee, — Ocean! and my joy 

Of youthful sports — was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, — onward: from a boy — 

I wantoned with thy breakers : they — to me — 
"Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror, — 't was & pleasing fear, 
For I was, (as it were,) a child of thee, 

And I trusted to thy billows— far — and near, 
And laid my hand — upon thy mane, — as I do here. 


My task — is done; my song hath ceased; — my theme 

Has died — into an echo: it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 

The torch — shall be extinguished — which hath lit 
My midnight lamp, — and — what is writ is writ 

Would — it were worthier! — but I am not now — 
That — which I have been, — and my visions — flit 

Less palpably before me, — and the glow — 
Which — in my spirit dwelt — is fluttering,— faint, — and low*. 

THE OCEAN. Fanny Green. 

With the boundless sea around, — and the boundless sky above, I have been 
for days, as it were, swallowed up in the grandeur of the scene. You remem- 
ber, my brother, when we stood together in the midst of the Great Desert, and 
the deep repose of a starry night was folded round us as a garment. Silence 
stretched out her great wings, brooding over all things, and Fear shrunk 
trembling into the deepest shadows. The crouching lion was hushed in his 
lair, and stirred not even when the grim shadow of the silent-footed camels 
fell across his track; and the silly ostrich hid her head in the sand and nestled 
silently, as if she too felt the great Power that lives in Nature. 

We stood together, grasping each other by the hand, — silent before the 
Majesty which had clothed itself in vastness, and reigned alone. Oppressed 
with a strange awe, we could only whisper, " How great is Allah!" Then we 
started at the sound of our own voices, which were drunk up in a moment ; 
for the stillness itself — was the prqfoundest voice of God. 

A night view of the sea is akin to that; but in some respects quite different. 
The desert lies stretched out in its immensity, boundless in extent, and terrible 
in stillness ; but wholly void of life. The great creation seems to have dropped 
still-born from the hands of Allah; and, thenceforth become dead, it lies as it 
was first laid, with the sorrowful and silent stars looking in its wan face; 
though the Ages have embalmed it, and like the Dead of Egypt it has been 
brought to the Banquet of Life. 

But the sea is full of motion, of physical character and life in their grandest 
forms. It is in itself a great motive power, and only weaker than the Strong- 
est. As I look afar over the broad, heaving bosom of the ocean, I am filled 
with a variety of strange and new sensations. I feel a deep longing after the 
Beautiful and the True. I stretch out my arms to embrace the Greatness. I 
aspire toward all the Possible. 

THE ALPS. Willis Gaylord Clark. 

Proud monuments — of God! sublime ye stand 

Among the wonders — of his mighty hand: 

With summits — soaring in the upper sky, 

Where the broad day looks down — with burning eye; 

Where gorgeous clouds — in solemn pomp repose, 

Flinging rich shadows — on eternal snows : 

Piles — of triumphant dust, ye stand alone, 

And hold, (in kingly state,) & peerless throne! 


Like olden conquerors, on high ye rear 
The regal ensign, and the glittering spear : 
Round icy spires — the 7iii$ts, (in wreaths unrolled,) 
Float ever near, in purple — or in gold; 
And voiceful torrents, sternly rolling there, 
Fill (with wild music) the unpillared air: 
"What garden, or what hall — on earth beneath, 
Thrills to such tones as o'er the mountains breathe? 

There, (through long ages past,) those summits shone 
"When morning radiance — on their state was thrown; 
There, (when the summer day's career was done,) 
Played the last glory — of the sinking sun ; 
There, (sprinkled luster — o'er the cataract's shade,) 
The chastened moon — her glittering rainhow made; 
And, — (blent with pictured stars,) her luster lay 
Where — (to still vales) the free streams leaped away. 

Where — are the thronging hosts — of other days, 
"Whose banners — floated o'er the Alpine ways; 
"Who, (through their high defiles,) to battle — wound, 
"While deadly ordnance — stirred the heights around ? 
Gone, like the dream — that melts at early morn, 
When the lark's anthem — through the sky is borne: 
Gone, like the wrecks — that sink in ocean's spray, 
And chill Oblivion — murmurs : Where are they? 
Yet "Alps — on Alps" still rise ; the lofty home 
Of storms — and eagles, where their pinions roam ; 
Still — round their peaks — the magic colors lie, 
(Of morn — and eve,) imprinted — on the sky; 
And still, while kings — and thrones — shall fade — and. fall, 
And empty crowns — lie dim — upon the pall; 
Still — shall their glaciers flash ; their torrents roar, 
Till kingdoms fail, and nations — rise no more. 

THE CELESTIAL ARMY. T. Buchanan Read. 

I stood by the open casement, 

And looked upon the night, 
And saw the westward-going stars 

Pass slowly out of sight. 

Slowly the bright procession 

Went down the gleaming arch, 
And my soul discerned the music 

Of their long triumphant march. 

Till the great celestial army, 

Stretching far beyond the poles, 
Became the eternal symbol 

Of the mighty march of souls. 


Onward! forever onward, 

Red Mars led down his clan, 
And the moon, like a mailed maiden, 

Was riding in the van. 

And some were bright in beauty, 

And some were faint and small; 
But these might be in their great height 

The noblest of them all. 

Downward ! forever downward, 

Behind earth's dusky shore, 
They passed into the unknown night — 

They passed, and were no more. 

No more ! Oh, say not so ! 

And downward is not just ; 
For the sight is weak and the sense is dim 

That looks through the heated dust. 

The stars and the mailed moon, 

Though they seem to fall and die, 
Still sweep with their embattled lines 

An endless reach of sky. 

And though the hills of death 

May hide the bright array, 
The marshaled brotherhood of souls 

Still keeps its upward way. 

Upward ! forever upward ! 

I see their march sublime, 
And hear the glorious music 

Of the conquerors of time. 

And long let me remember, 

That the palest fainting one 
May unto divine wisdom be 

A bright and blazing sun. 


With what a stately and majestic step- 
That glorious constellation of the North-^ 
Treads its eternal circle ! — going forth 
Its princely way amongst the stars in slow 
And silent brightness. Mighty one, — all hail! 
I joy to see thee on thy glowing path 
Walk like some stout and girded giant — stern, — 
Unwearied, — resolute, whose toiling foot 
Disdains to loiter on its destined way. 
The other tribes forsake their midnight track, 
And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; 


But thou dost never close thy burning eye, 

Nor stnii thy steadfast step; — but on, — still oh, 

While systems — change and su?is — retire, and worlds — 

Slumber — and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. 

The near horizon tempts to rest in vain ; 

Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit 

Thy long-appointed watch ; — but, sleepless still, — 

Dost guard the fixed light of the universe, 

And bid the north — forever know its place. 

Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust, 
Unchanged, unchanging. 

When the sons of God. 
Sent forth that shout of joy which rang thro' heaven, 
And echoed from the outer spheres — that bound. 
The illimitable universe, — thy voice 
Joined the high chorus; from thy radiant orbs 
The glad cry resounded, swelling to his praise 
Who thus had cast another sparkling gem, 
Little but beautiful, amid the crowd 
Of splendors — that enrich his firmament: 
As thou art now, — so wast thou then the same. 
Ages have roll'd their course, and time grows gray; 
The seas have changed their beds; the eternal hills 
Have stoop' d with age; — the solid continents 
Have left their banks ; and man's imperial works, — 
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung 
Their mighty honors in the face of heaven, 
As if immortal, — have been swept away,— 
Shatter' d and moldering, — buried and forgot. 
But time has shed no — dimness on thy front, 
Nor touched the firmness of thy — tread: — youth, strength, 
And beauty still are thine, — as clear, as bright 
As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth, 
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, 
To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim 
The chorus of — Eternal Love. 

I wonder as I gaze! That stream of light, 

Undimm'd, — unquench'd, — just as I see thee now, 

Has issued from those dazzling points thro' years 

That go back — far into eternity. 

Exhaustless flood ! — forever spent ! renewed 

Forever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, 

Which now descend upon my lifted eye, 

Left their fair fountain twice three years ago : — 

So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ; 

So vast the void through which their beams descend. 

Yea, glorious lamps of God, he may have quench 'd 

Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night 

Rest on your spheres, and yet no tidings reach 


This distant planet. Messengers still come, 
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem 
To see your lights still burning, while their blaze 
But — hides the black wreck of extinguish d — realms. 
Where anarchy — and darkness long have reign'd. 
Yet what is this which to the astonish' d mind 
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought 
Confounds ? A span, a point in those dominions 
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars 
Dwell in that brilliant cluster ; and the sight 
Embraces all at once ; yet each from each 
Recedes as far as each of them from earth, — 
And every star from ev'ry other burns 
No less remote. 

From the profound of heaven, 
Untravel'd e'en in thought, — keen-piercing rays 
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense 
Systems — and — worlds — unnumbered. Take the glass, 
And search the skies. The opening heavens pour down 
Upon your gaze — thick showers of sparkling fire; — 
Stars crowded, — thronged, in regions so remote 
That their swift beams — the swiftest things that be — 
Have traveled centuries on their flight to earth. 
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations, what 
Are ye amid this infinite expanse 
And multitude of God's most infinite works? 

And these are Suns ! — vast central, — living — fires,- — 

Lords of dependent systems, — kings of worlds — 

That wait as satellites upon their power, 

And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, 

And meditate and — wonder ! Countless suns 

Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds ! 

Worlds — in whose boso?ns — living things rejoice, 

And drink the bliss of being from the fount 

Of all-pervading love. 

What mind can know, 
What tongue can utter all their multitudes? 
Thus numberless in numberless abodes ! 
Known but to the blessed Father! Thine — they are 
Thy children — and thy care; and none — o'erlooked 
Of thee! — no, not the humblest soul that dwells 
Upon the humblest globe — which wheels its course 
Amid the giant glories of the sky, 
Like the mean mote that dances in the beams, 
Amongst the mirror 'd lamps — which fling 
Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall. 
None can escape the kindness of thy care : 
All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing, 
Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. 


Tell mo, ye splendid orbs, — as from your throne 

Ye mark the rolling provinces that own 

Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes ? 

Do they bear 
The stamp of human — nature, or has God 
Peopled those purer realms — with lovelier forms 
And more celestial — minds? Does innocence 
Still wear her native and untainted bloom; 
Or has sin breathed his deadly blight abroad 
And sown corruption in those fairy bowers? 
Or are they yet all Paradise, — unf alien 
And uncorrupt, — existence one long joy, 
Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
Upon the heart, — or weariness of life ? 
Hope never quenched, — and age — unknown, 
And — death — unfear'd; — while fresh and fadeless youth 
Glows in the light from God's near throne of love? 
Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair! 
Speak ! speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds 
Unfold! No language? Everlasting light 
And everlasting silence ? Yet the eye 
May read and understand. The hand of God 
Has written legibly what man may know — 
The glory of his Maker. There it shines, 
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man, 
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe, 
May know, and ask no more. 

In other days, 
"When death — shall give the encumbered spirit wings, 
Its range shall be extended ; it shall roam 
Perchance amongst those vast mysterious spheres ; — 
Shall pass from orb to orb, — and dwell in each, 
Familiar with its children. 

Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight, — 
No pause of pleasure or improvement; 

While the soul, — 
Advancing even to the source of light 
And all perfection, — lives, adores, and reigns 
In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. 


One morn — a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, — disconsolate; 
And as she listened to the Springs 

Of Life within, — like music flowing, — 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half-open portal glowing, 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place! 


" How happy," exclaimed this child of air, 

" Are the holy Spirits who wander there 

'Mid flowers that shall never fade or fall; 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blosson of Heaven outblooms them all. 

"Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, 

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray ; 
Yet, — oh ! 't is only the blest can say 

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all ! 

"Go, — wing your flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall : 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 

One minute of Heaven is worth them all ! " 

The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping; 
And, as he nearer drew and listen' d 
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd 
"Within his eyelids, like the spray 

From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flow'r, which — Brahmins say — 

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. 

" Nymph of a fair — but erring line ! " 
Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 
'T is written in the book of fate, 

That Peri yet may be forgiven 
Who brings to this eternal gate 

The gift that is most dear to Heaven I 
Go, — seek it, — and redeem thy sin — 
'T is sweet to let the Pardorfd in." 

Bapidly as comets run 

To the embrace of the Sun ; — 

Fleeter than the starry brands 

Flung at night from angel hands, 

At those dark and daring sprites 

Who would climb th' empyrical heights, 

Down the blue vault the Peri flies, 
And, lighted earthward by a glance 

That just then broke from Morning's eyes, 
Hung hov'ring o'er the world's expanse. 


But whither shall the Spirit go 

To find this gift from Heaven ? "I know 

The wealth," she cries, " of every urn, 

In which unnumbered rubies burn, 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar : 

I know where the Isles of Perfume are, 

Many a fathom down in the sea, 

To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 

I know, too, where the Genii hid 

The jewel'd cup of their King Jamshid, 

With Life's elixir sparkling high : 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne? 

And the Drops of Life — oh ! what would they be 

In the boundless Deep of Eternity?" 

While thus she mused, her pinions fannd 
The airs of the sweet Indian land, 
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 

With human blood ; — the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers; 
And man, — the sacrifice of man, — 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers. 

Land of the Sun ! What foot invades 
Thy Pagods and thy pillar' d shades, — 
Thy cavern-shrines, and Idol-stones, 
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones? 
'T is He of G-azna — fierce in wrath 

He comes, and India's diadems 
Lie scattered in his ruinous path. 

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, 

Torn from the violated necks 
Of many a young and loved Sultana ; 
Maidens, within their pure Zenenna, 
Priests — in the very fane he slaughters, 

And chokes up with glittering wrecks 
Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! 
Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 
And, through the war-field's bloody haze, 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand 

Alone, — beside his native river, — 
The red blade broken in his hand, 

And the last arrow in his quiver. 


" Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share 

The trophies and the crowns I bear ! " 

Silent that youthful warrior stood ; 

Silent he pointed to the flood, 

All crimson with his country's blood; 

Then sent his last remaining dart, 

For answer, — to the Invader's heart. 

False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The Tyrant lived,— the Hero— fell ! 
Yet marked the Peri where he lay ; 

And when the rush of wars was past, 
Swiftly descending on a ray 

Of morning light, she caught the last, — 
Last — glorious drop his heart had shed 
Before his free-born spirit fled ! 

" Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distill 

On the field of warfare,— blood like this, 

For Liberty shed, so holy is, 
It would not stain the purest rill 

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss ! 
Oh ! if there be on this earthly sphere 
A boon, — an offering Heaven holds dear, 
'T is the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause! " 

" Sweet," said the Angel, — as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, — 
" Sweet is our welcome of the Brave 

"Who die thus for their native land : — 
But see — alas ! — the crystal bar 
Of Eden moves not ; — holier far 
Than even this drop the boon must be 
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee ! " 


It was a starry night — in June; the air — was soft — and still, 

When the minute-men — (from Cambridge) came, — and gathered — on the hill. 

Beneath us — lay the sleeping town; around us — frowned the fleet; 

But — the pulse — of freemen, {not of slaves,) within our bosoms beat; 

And every heart — rose high — with hope, — as — (fearlessly) we said, — 

'• We will be numbered — with the free, — or numbered — with the dead." 

" Bring out the line — to mark the trench, — and stretch it — on the sword!" 

The trench — is marked, — the tools — are brought, — and we utter — not word ; 

But stack our guns, — then fall to work — with mattock — and with spade, 

A thousand men — with sinewy arms, — and not a sound — is made : 

So still were we — (the stars beneath) th't scarce a whisper — fell ; 

We heard the ?^c?-coat's musket click, — and heard him cry, — ("All } s well!") 


And here—iuu\ there— a twinkling port, — reflected — on the deep, — 

In many a wavy shadow — show'd their sullen guns— asleep. 

Sloop on / thou blood)/— hireling crew! in careless slumber lie; 

The trench — is growing broad and deep, — the breast-works — broad — and high: 

Xo striplings — we, — hut bear the arms — th't held the French — in check, 

The drums — th't beat— at Louisburg — and thundered — at Quebec! 

And thou — (whose promise — is deceit,) — no more — thy word — we trust; 

Thou butcher, — [Gage!) thy power — and thee — we'll humble — in the dust; 

Thou and thy Tory ministers — have boasted — to thy brood, — 

u The lintels — of the faithful — shall he sprinkled — with our blood! 11 

But — tho' thin walls — those lintels he, — thy zeal — is all in vain: 

A thousand freemen — shall rise up — for every freeman — slain; 

And when — o'er trampled crowns — and thrones — they raise the mighty shout, 

This soil — their Palestine shall be ; their altar — this redoubt. 

See — how the morn — is breaking, — the red — is in the sky; 

The mist — is creeping — from the stream — th't floats — in silence by; 

The Lindy's hull — looms thro' the fog, — and they — our works — have spied, — 

For the ruddy flash — and round shot — part — in thunder — from her side. 

And the Falcon and the Cerebus — make — every bosom thrill 

"With gun, — and shell, — and drums, — and ball, — and boatswains 1 whistle shrill 

But deep — and wider — grows the trench, — as spade — and mattock ply, 

For — we have to cope — with fearful odds, — and the time — is drawing nigh! 

Up — with the pine-tree, banner ! Our gallant Prescott stands 

Amid the plunging shells — and shot, — and plants it — with his hands. 

Up — with the shout ! for Putnam — comes upon his reeking bay, 

With bloody spur — and foaming bit, — in haste — to join the fray; 

And Pomeroy, — (with his snow- white hair, — and face — all dust — and sweat,) 

Unscathed by French — or Indian, — wears a youthful glory yet. 

But thou, — whose soul — is glowing — in the summer — of thy years, 
Unvanquishable Warren, — thou, — (the youngest — of thy peers,) — 
Wert born, — and bred, — and shaped, — and made — to act a patriot' 's part; 
And dear to us — thy presence is— ras heart's blood — to the heart ! 
Well may ye howl, — ye British wolves ! with leaders — such as they 
Not one — will fail to follow — where they — choose to lead the way, 
As once before, — scarce two months since, — we followed on your track, 
And — with our rifles — marked the road ye took — in going back. 

Ye slew a sick man — in his bed; ye slew (with hands accursed) 
A mother — nursing, — and her blood — fell on the babe — she nursed; 
By their own doors — our kinsmen fell, and perished — in the strife; 
But — as we hold a hireling's — cheap, — and dear — a freeman 1 s — life, 
By Tanner brook and Lincoln bridge, (before the shut of sun,) 
We took the recompense — we claimed, — a score — for every one ! 

Hark ! from the town— a trumpet ! The barges— at the wharf 

Are crowded — with the living freight, — and now — they 're pushing off: 

With clash — and glitter, — trump — and drum, — in all its bright array, 

Behold the splendid sacrifice — move slowly — o'er the bay! 

And still — and still — the barges fill, — and still — across the deep, 

Like thunder-clouds — along the sky, — the hostile transports sweep ; 


And now — they 'reforming at the Point; — now — the lines advance: 

We see — (beneath the sultry sun) — their polished bayonets glance; 

We hear — (anear) — the throbbing drum, — the bugle challenge ring; 

Quick bursts — and loud — the flashing cloud, — and rolls — from wing — to wing ; 

But — on the height — our bulwark stands, — tremendous — in its gloom, — 

As sullen — as a tropic sky — and silent — as the tomb. 

And so — we waited — till we saw, — at scarce ten rifles' length, 

The old — vindictive Saxon spite, — in all its stubborn strength; 

When — sudden — flash — on flash — around the jagged rampart burst 

From every gun — the livid light — upon the foe — accursed: 

Then — quailed a monarch's might — before a free-born people 1 s ire; 

Then — drank the sward — the veterans life — where swept the yeoman's fire. 

Then — staggered — by shot — we saw their serried columns reel, 

And fall — as falls the headed rye — before the reaper's steel : 

And then — anon a mighty shout — th't might — have waked the dead, — 

" Hurrah! they run! the field — is won!" " Hurrah! the foe is fled!" 

And every man — has dropped his gun — to clutch — a neighbor's hand, 

As his heart — kept praying — (all the while) for home — and native land. 

Thrice — on that day we stood the shock — of thrice — a thousand foes, 
And thrice — (that day) — within our lines — the shout of victory rose! 
And — tho' our swift fire — slackened then, — and reddening — in the skies — 
We saiv — (from Charlestowri' 's roofs — and walls) the flamy columns rise ; 
Yet — while we had a cartridge left — we still — maintained the fight, 
Nor gained the foe — one foot of ground — upon that blood-st&med height. 

What — though for us — no laurels bloom, — nor — o'er the nameless brave — 

No sculptured trophy, — scroll, — nor patch — records a warrior's grave! 

What — tho' the day — (to us) — was lost ! Upon the deathless page — 

The everlasting charter stands — for every land — and age ! 

For man — hath broke — his felon bands, — and cast them — in the dust, 

And claimed his heritage divine, — and justified — the trust. 

While — thro' his rifled prison-bars, — the hues of Freedom pour — 

O'er every nation, — race, — and clime, — on every sea — and shore. 

Such glories — as the patriarch viewed — when — 'mid the darkest skies 

He saw — above a ruined world — the Bow — of Promise rise ! 


Heard ye — those loud contending waves 

That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state; 
Saw ye the mighty from their graves 

Look up, and tremble at her fate? 

Who shall calm the angry storm ? 
Who the mighty task perform, 

And bid the raging tumult cease? 
See — the son of Hermes< rise, 
With syren — tongue and — speaking eyes 

Hush the noise, and soothe to peace ! 


Lo ! from the regions of the north, 
The reddening storm of battle pours, 

Rolls along the trembling earth, 
Fastens on the Olynthian towers. 

" Where rests the sword ? — where sleep the brave? 
Awake! Cecropia's ally save 

From the fury of the blast ; 
Burst the storm on Phocis' walls ! 
Eise ! or Greece forever falls ; 

Up! or freedom breathes her last ! " 

The jarring states, obsequious now, — 
View the Patriots hand on high ; 

Thunder gathering on his brow, 
Lightning — flashing from his eye ! 

Borne by the tide of words along, 

One voice, — one mind, inspire the throng ! — 

"T' arms! t' arms! t' arms!" they cry, 
" Grasp the shield, — and draw the sword. 
Lead us to Philippi's lord ; 

Let us conquer him, or die!" 

Ah, Eloquence ! thou wast undone, 
Wast from thy native country driven, 

When Tyranny — eclipsed the sun 

And blotted out the stars of heaven ! 

When Liberty — from Greece withdrew, 
And o'er the Adriatic flew 

To where the Tiber pours his urn, — 
She struck the rude Tarpeian rock; 
Sparks — were kindled by the shock; — 

Again thy fires began to burn ! — 

Now, — shining forth, thou mad'st complaint, 
The conscript fathers to thy charms, 

Rous' d the world-bestriding giant, 
Sinking fast in Slavery 1 s arms ! — 

I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, 
Pouring the persuasive strain, 

Giving vast conceptions birth: 
Hark I I hear thy thunders sound, 
Shake the Forum round — and round, 

Shake the pillars of the earth ! 

First-bom of Liberty divine ! 

Put on Religion's bright array: 
Speak! and the starless grave — shall shine 

The portal of eternal day ! 


Rise, kindling with the orient beam, 
Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme, 

Unfold the garments roll'd in blood! 
Oh ! touch the soul, — touch all her chords 
With all the omnipotence of words, 

And point the way to heaven — to God ! 


Ye sons — of Freedom, wake — to glory ! 

Hark ! hark ! what myriads — bid you rise ! 
Your children, — wives, and grandsires hoary, 

Behold their tears, — and hear their cries. 
Shall hateful tyrants, — [mischief breeding, 

With hireling hosts, — a ruffian band,) 

Affright — and desolate the land, 
While peace — and liberty — lie bleeding? 

To arms! to arms, ye brave! 

Th' avenging sword unsheath: 
March on, march on, — all hearts resolved 

On victory — or death! 

Now, — now, — the dangerous storm is rolling, 
Which treacherous kings, [confederate,) raise; 

The dogs of war, — (let loose,) — are howling, 
And lo ! our fields — and cities — blaze; 

And shall we basely — view the ruin, 

While lawless force, — (with guilty stride,) 
Spreads desolation — -far — and wide, 

With crimes — and blood — his hands imbruing ? 

To arms ! to arms, — ye brave ! 

The avenging sword unsheath : 
March on, — march on, all hearts resolved — 

On victory — or death ! 

With luxury — and pride — surrounded, 

The vile — insatiate despots — dare, 
(Their thirst of power — and gold — unbounded,) — 

To mete — and vend — the light — and air. 
Like beasts of burden — would they load us ; 

Like gods, — would bid their slaves — adore; 

But man — is man, — and who — is more ? 
Then — shall they longer — lash — and goad us? 

To arms ! to arms, — ye brave ! 

Th' avenging sword unsheath : 
March on, march on, — all hearts resolved — 

On victory — or death ! 


O Liberty ! can man resign thee 

Once — having felt thy generous flame? 

Can dungeons, — bolts, — and bars — confine thee, 
Or whips — thy noble spirit tame? 

Too long — the world has wept, — bewailing 
That falsehood' s dagger — tyrants wield : 
But freedom — is our sword — and shield. 

And all — their arts — are unavailing. 

To arms ! to AKMS ,— ye brave ! 

Th' avenging sword unsheath : 
March on, march on, — all hearts resolved — 

On victory — or death! 

COLUMBIA. Timothy Dwight. 

Columbia, Columbia, to glory — arise, 

The queen of the world — and the child of the skies; 

Thy genius commands thee ; with rapture behold, 

"While ages — on ages — thy splendors unfold. 

Thy reign is the last — and the noblest of time ; 

Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting — thy clime; 

Let the crimes of the East — ne'er encrimson thy name', 

Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame. 

To conquest and slaughter — let Europe aspire ; 
Whelm nations — in blood and wrap cities — mfli-e; 
Thy heroes — the rights of mankind shall defend, 
And triumph pursue them, — and glory attend. 
A world — is thy realm ; for a world — be thy laws, 
Enlarged — as thine empire, and just — as th}- cause; 
On Freedom's broad basis — that empire shall rise, 
Extend — with the main and dissolve — with the skies. 

Fair Science — her gates — to thy sons shall unbar, 

And the east — see thy morn — hide the beams of her star. 

New bards — and new sages, unrivaled, shall soar 

To fame, unextinguished, — when time is no more; 

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, 

Shall fly — from all nations — the best of mankind; 

Here, grateful — to Heaven, — with transport shall bring 

Their incense, — mora fragrant — than odors of spring . 

Nor less shall thy fair ones — to glory ascend, 
And genius — and beauty — in Iiarmony blend; 
The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 
And the charms of the soul — ever cherish the fire; 
Their sweetness unminglcd, — their manners refined, 
And virtue's bright image enstamp'd on the mind ; 
"With peac? and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, 
And light up a smile — in the aspect of woe. 


HERVE KIEL. By Robert Browning. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French — woe to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Bance, 
With the English fleet in view. 

'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville ; 

Close on him fled, great and small, 

Twenty-two good ships in all; 

And they signaled to the place, 

" Help the winners of a race ! 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker still, 

Here 's the Eno-lish can and will ! " 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board; 

" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass ?" laughed they : 

" Eocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored; 

Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, 

Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, — 

Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 

And with flow at full beside ? 

Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. 

Beach the mooring? Bather say, 

While rock stands or water runs, 

Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

Then was called a council straight ; 

Brief and bitter the debate: 
" Here's the English at our heels ; would you have them take in tow 
All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow 

For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 

Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 

"Not a minute more to wait ! 

Let the captains all and each 
Shove ashore ; then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! 

France must undergo her fate.''" 

" Give the word ! " But no such word 

Was ever spoke or heard ; 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — 
A captain ? A lieutenant ? A mate — first, second, third ? 

No such man of mark, and meet 

With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet— 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Biel the Croisickese. 


And " What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Kiel; 
••Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 
Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 'a for? 

Morn and eve, night and day, 

Have I piloted your bay ; 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe me there 's a way ! 

Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 

Get this Formidable clear, 

Make the others follow mine, 
And I '11 lead them most and least by a passage I know well, 

Eight to Solidor, past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 

And if one ship misbehave — 

Keel so much as grate the ground — 
Why, I 've nothing but my life : here 's my bead ! " cries Herve Kiel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

"Steer us in then, small and great! 
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " cried its chief. 

Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief. 

Still the north wind, by God's grace. 

See the noble fellow's face 

As the big ship, with a bound, 

Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock ! 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief! 

The peril, see, is past, 

All are harbored to the last, 
And just as Herve Kiel hollas "Anchor !" sure as fate, 

Up the English come, too late. 

So the storm subsides to calm : 

They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve: 

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 

"Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay r 

Gnash their teeth and glare askance, 

As they cannonade away! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Kance!" 
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! 


Out burst all with one accord, 

" This is paradise for hell ! 

Let France, let France's king 

Thank the man that did the thing ! " 

What a shout, and all one word 

11 Herve Kiel." 

As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes — 

Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville : " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 
Though I find the speaking hard: — 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the king his ships, 
You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content, and have — or my name 's not Damfreville ! " 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 

On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 

" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 
And from Malo Koads to Croisic Point — what is it but a run ? — 

Since 't is ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 

Come ! A good whole holiday ! 
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore ! " 
That he asked, and that he got — nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost : 

Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 

Not a head in white and black 

On a single fishing-smack, 
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. 

Go to Paris ; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 

On the Louvre, face and flank ; 
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Kiel. 

So, for better and for worse, 

Herve Kiel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Kiel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore ! 



The Keverential Style — True Emphasis — Name of the Deity — 


The question is frequently asked, in what manner should we read 
the Scriptures and compositions of a sacred character. As a general 
rule, their meaning and sentiment must dictate, as do those of all 
other compositions. Where the style is solemn and grand, the voice, 
time, and movement must be correspondingly so. The name of the 
Divine Being, when directly addressed, should never be pronounced 
in the pitches of voice used by the profane and the blasphemous; 
yet many ministers and preachers of the Word make no difference 
in this respect. But before the name is pronounced the voice should 
be fully suspended, and sufficient pause be given to allow an inflowing 
of reverential feeling. The voice should fall at least from one to two 
tones lower, as in parenthetical modulations. Yet, instead of being 
spoken more rapidly, it, on the contrary, should take a slow and 
tremulous circumflex movement; and this must not be affected, but 

"Deliver my soul, O Lord, from lying lips and from a deceitful tongue." 

"Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever! The scepter of thy kingdom is 
a right scepter." 

Much difficulty is experienced by many people about finding the 
true emphasis of such clauses as the following: "I was created by 
God;" and "by God and his holy angels." If "by God" is ren- 
dered without emphasis, there is felt a want of reverence; if the 
preposition by is emphasized, it smacks of profanity; if again, the 
emphasis is placed on the name of God, it is equally suggestive of 
swearing ; but if we resort to that slight suspension of voice, before 
spoken of, after the word "by," and pronounce the name God in a 
grave tone, with a slight circumflexion of voice, nothing harsh or out 
of place will be experienced. "It was created by — God — and his 
Iwly angels," etc. These are seemingly small matters, but exceed- 
ingly important, as they go to make up the aggregate of truthful 


The following exercises will be practiced with direct reference to 
this rest of voice before the clauses and names of the Deity, and with 
the low, tremulous circumflex which the pronunciation of the name 
requires : 

"3 Hail — 1 Universal Lord! — 3 be bounteous still, and only good." 

"2 And if the night — hath gathered aught of evil — 3 r concealed, — 
2 Disperse it now as light — dispels — 1 the dark." 

"6 Prayer — ardent — opens heaven; lets down a sir earn of glory — on the 
consecrated hour of man — 3i n audience with — ithe Deity." 

" In its sublime research, — philosophy 

May measure out the ocean deep, — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays ; — but, — 1 God, — for thee 

There is no weight — nor measure : none can mount 
Up to thy mysteries; — reason's brightest spark, — 

Though kindled by thy light, — in vain would try 
To trace thy counsels infinite and — dark; 

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, 

Even like past moments — in eteknity." 

But there are passages that require rapid and joyful movements 
of voice. It is always important, as has been before stated, that the 
subject and sentiment should be clearly defined in the mind before 
attempting to give them forcible expression. 

Passages written under the excitement of exalted imagination, 
when the soul communes with the spirit of nature, require the iden- 
tification of one's self with the spirit to render them properly. 

The magnificent outburst of joyful emotion exhibited in the selec- 
tion given below from the Psalms shows a spirit appreciative of the 
creative forces of all things, and if the student has not the power to 
enter this exalted state he can not render the words of the great 
singer. But if, with David, he can behold the great mass of waters 
surging their vast floods in the rhythm of motion — mighty waves 
lifting their crested heads in the sunshine, chasing each other with 
delight — all impelled irresistibly onward by that same power w T hich 
inspires us with life and impulse — then the imagination can perceive 
that the floods can clap their hands and the hills be joyful together : 

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth; make a loud noise, and 
rejoice, and sing praise. 

Sing unto the Lord with the harp; with the harp and the voice of a psalm. 

With trumpets and sound of cornet make a joyful noise before — the Lord, — 
the King. 

Let the sea — roar, and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell 


Lei the foods — clap their hands: let the hills — be joyful together 
Before — the Lord ; for he cometh to judge the earth: with righteousness shall 
lie judge the icorld, and the people with equity." (Psalm xcviii, 4-9.) 

There is a feeling, which quite generally prevails, that in reading 
the Sacred Scriptures or the Church Ritual elocutionary rules need 
not be observed. This idea is based upon the supposition that all 
elocution is an affected, stilted style of reading, which should not be 
applied to Holy Writ. If this were so, the art of elocution should 
certainly not be thus applied. 

Some believe that the letter of the Word is of little value ; that 
the spiritual meaning only should be brought out, and that this 
requires some peculiar style. But they fail to inform us what the 
peculiar style is. These forget that it is only through the letter that 
the spirit can be embodied, and through the letter alone can we give 
forth its true expression. It would be a foolish waste of time to utter 
words only, if these could not be made the interpreters of the thoughts, 
the affections, the emotions of the soul. 

When we attend church for the sake of divine worship, we can but 
feel sad at the great neglect of the proper reading of the Scriptures 
and the church service. Ministers and congregation alike seem to be 
unconscious of the importance of giving their best efforts in such 
service. The mumbled, hurried, and discordant sounds heard in 
responses are not worship ; they are not even lip-service. Without 
any desire to be censorious, and with the sincere wish that what 
purports to be worship should be such in spirit and in truth, we 
must say that we have listened to responses given in churches which 
struck the ear more like a dissatisfied grumble than an earnest, hearty 
outgushing of praise or supplication. It is not well to cherish the 
idea that this stinted offering is praise or service. He who has so 
wonderfully constructed the human voice ought to receive as tribute 
the highest outpouring of soul in sweetest and most harmonious utter- 
ances; and they who are devout and reverent should also praise in 

But says the objector, religious expression is an individual thing, 
and each must be allowed to give it utterance in his own way. Cer- 
tainly, but his way should be a harmonious one, so long as harmonic 
laws can be studied by all. 

Let us look at the subject of collective and individual worship. 
For individual worship people do not come into assemblies. The 
ability to bring one's self into communion with the Divine Spirit is 
one thing, and the ability to unite with a number of persons, giving 


mutual strength and assistance in coming into a condition receptive 
of the inflowing of the Spirit, is quite another thing. It is somewhat 
like the difference of tuning one instrument to harmony in a certain 
key, and bringing a great number of different instruments to a perfect 
accord in the same key. 

Individual worship alone does not satisfy; people desire to unite 
in prayer and praise. Man is socially religious as well as intellect- 
ually, scientifically, or musically social. For this reason temples for 
worship and instruction are reared ; and in the union and harmony 
of the entire congregation is produced the best state for the reception 
of divine truths. The Spirit of the Lord can only descend in the 
harmonies, never in the discords. 

If this individual indifference and disregard of the laws of har- 
mony and time were applied to singing the hymns, we should see how 
ridiculous it is ; yet the reading, the prayer, and the responses are just 
as much a part of the worship. Let us tune our voices in unison ; 
get control of the letter of the Word, that we may through that 
medium give expression to the spirit. People should read in concert, 
sing in concert, and praise in concert. 

Some persons object to teaching any part of the Bible as a reading- 
lesson ; alleging that it is of too sacred a character to be used for the 
purposes of education. We should say that if it is too sacred to be 
used in instruction, it is too sacred to be read badly : and if people 
w r ere taught to read the Bible as it should be read, with true spirit 
and feeling, it would be better valued and appreciated than it is 

SENNACHERIB'S RUIN. Isaiah xxxvi, 13-22 ; xxxvii, 1-7, 33-38. 

Then Rabshakeh stood, and cried with a loud voice in the Jews 1 language, 
and said, Hear ye the words of the great king, — the king of Assyria. Thus 
saith the king, Let not Hezekiah deceive you: for he shall not be ahle to deliver 
you. Neither let Hezekiah make you trust in the Lord, saying, The Lord will 
surely deliver us : this city shall not be delivered into the hand of the king of 
Assyria. Hearken not to Hezekiah: for thus saith the king of Assyria, Make 
an agreement with me by a present, and come out to me : and eat ye every one 
of his vine, and every one of his fig-tree, and drink ye every one of the waters 
of his own cistern ; until I come and take you away to a land like your own 
land, a land of corn and wine, — a land of bread and vineyards. Beware lest 
Hezekiah persuade you, saying, The Lord will deliver us. Hath any of the gods 
of the nations — delivered his land — out of the hand of the king of Assyria? 
Where — are the gods of Hamoth and Arpad? where are the gods of Sephar- 
vaim ? and have they — delivered Samaria — out of my hands ? Who — are they — 
among all the gods of these lands, that have delivered their land out of my 
hand, that the Lord should deliver Jerusalem out of my hand? But they 


held their peace, and answered him not a word; for the king's commandment 
was. saying, Answer him not. 

Then came Eliakim, (the son of Hilkiah, that was over the household,) and 
Shebna the scribe, and Joah (the son of Asaph,) the recorder, — to Hezekiah — with 
their clothes rent, and told him — the words of Rabshakeh. 

And it came to pass when king Hezekiah heard it, that he rent his clothes, 
and covered himself with sackcloth, and went into the house of the Lord. And 
he sent Ella kirn, (who was over the household,) and Shebna the scribe, and 
the elders of the priests, (covered with sackcloth,) unto Isaiah the prophet, (the 
son of Amoz.) And they said unto him, — Thus saith Hezekiah, This day is a 
day of trouble, and of rebuke, and of blasphemy : for the children are come to 
the birth, and there is not strength to bring forth. It may be — the Lord thy 
G*d will hear the words of Rabshakeh, (whom the king of Assyria, his master, 
hath sent to reproach the living God,) and will reprove the words which the 
Lord thy God hath heard : wherefore lift up thy prayer for the remnant that is 
left. So — the servants of king Hezekiah came to Isaiah. 

And Isaiah said unto them, Thus shall ye say unto your master, Thus saith 
the Lord, Be not afraid of the words that thou hast heard, wherewith the serv- 
ants of the king of Assyria have blasphemed me. Behold — I will send a blast 
upon him, and he shall hear a rumor, and return to his own land; and I will 
cause him to fall by the sword in his own land. Therefore thus saith the Lord 
concerning the king of Assyria, He shall not come into this city, nor shoot an 
arrow there, nor come before it with shields, nor cast a bank against it. By the 
way that he came, by the same shall he return, and shall not come into the city, 
saith the Lord. For I will defend this city to save it for mine own sake, and 
for my servant David's sake. Then the angel of the Lord went forth, and 
smote in the camp of the Assyrians a hundred and fourscore and five thousand : 
and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses. 

So Sennacherib, (the king of Assyria,) departed, and went and returned, 
and dwelt at Nineveh. And it came to pass, as he was worshiping in the house 
of Nisroch his god, that Adrammelech and Sharezer his sons smote him with the 
sword; and they escaped into the land of Armenia: and Esarhaddon his son 
reigned in his stead. 


Now — when Festus was come into the province, (after three days) — he as- 
cended from Cesarea. to Jerusalem. Then — the high priest — and the chief of 
the Jews — informed- him against Paul, and besought him, and desired favor 
against him, that he would send for him to Jerusalem, laying wait — (in the 
way) — to kill him. But Festus answered, — that Paul should be kept at Cesarea, 
and that he himself — would depart shortly thither. Let them therefore, said 
he, which among you are able, go down with me, and accuse this man, — if there 
be any wickedness in him. And when he had tarried among them more than 
ten days, — he went u dow?i unto Cesarea; and the next day — (sitting on the 
judgment-seat) — commanded Paul to be brought. And w r hen he was come, the 
Jews — (which came down from Jerusalem) — stood round about, and laid 
many — and grievous complaints against Paul, which they could not prove. 
While he answered for himself, Neither against the law of the Jews, neither 


against the temple, nor yet against Caesar, — have I offended anything at all. 
But Festus,— (willing to do the Jews & pleasure,) answered Paul, — and said, — 
Wilt thou go up to Jerusalem, and there be judged of these things before me? 
Then said Paul, — I stand at Ccesar's judgment-seat, — where I ought to be 
judged: to the Jews have I done no wrong, — as thou very well knowest. For 
if I be an offender, or have committed any thing— worthy of death, I refuse not 
to die: but if there be none of these things (whereof these accuse me,) no man 
may — deliver me unto them. I appeal unto Ccesar. Then Festus, (when he 
had conferred with the council,) — answered, Hast thou appealed unto Ccesar? 
unto Caesar — shalt thou go. 

And after certain days — King Agrippa and Bernice — came unto Cesarea — 
to salute Festus. And when they had been there many days, Festus declared 
Paul's cause unto the king, saying, There is a certain man — left in bonds by 
Felix: about whom, — (when I was at Jerusalem,) the chief priests and the 
elders of the Jews informed me, — desiring to have judgment against him. To 
whom I answered, — It is not the manner of the Eomans to deliver any man to 
die, before that he — (which is accused) — have the accusers— /ace — to face, — and 
have license to answer for himself — concerning the crime laid against him. 
Therefore, — when they were come hither, — (without any delay) — on the morrow 
I sat on the judgment-seat, — and commanded the man to be brought forth. 
Against whom — when the accusers stood up, — they brought none accusation 
of such things as I supposed: but had certain questions against him — of their 
own superstition, and of one Jesus, which was dead, whom Paul affirmed — to 
be alive. And because I doubted of such manner of questions, — -I ashed him— 
whether he would go to Jerusalem, and there be judged of these matters. But 
when Paul had appealed to be reserved unto the hearing of Augustus, I com- 
manded him to be kept till I might send him to Caesar. Then Agrippa said 
unto Festus, — I would also hear the man myself. To-morrow, said he, thou 
shalt hear him. 

And on the morrow, — when Agrippa was come, and Bernice, with great 
pomp, and was entered into the place of hearing, with the chief captains, and 
principal men of the city, at Festus's commandment Paul was brought forth. 
And Festus said, — King Agrippa, and all men: — which are here present with 
us, ye see this man, about whom — all the multitude of the Jews have dealt 
with me, both at Jerusalem, and also here, crying — that he ought not to live 
any longer. But when I found — that he had committed nothing — worthy of 
death, and that he himself hath appealed to Augustus, — I have determined to 
send him. Of whom I have no certain thing to write unto my lord. Where- 
fore — I have brought him forth before you, and specially — before thee, — O King 
Agrippa, that, after examination had, I might have somewhat to write. For it 
seemeth to me unreasonable to send a prisoner, and not withal — to signify the 
crimes — laid against him. 


Then Agrippa — said unto Paul, — Thou art permitted — to speak for thyself. 
Then — Paul stretched forth the hand, — and answered for himself: I think my- 
self happy, King Agrippa, — because I shall answer for myself this day before 
thee — touching all the things — whereof I am accused of the Jews: especially — 


because I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among 
the Jews: wherefore — 1 beseech thee — to hear me patiently. My manner of 
life— from my youth, —(which was — at the first— among mine own nation at 
Jerusalem,) know all the Jews; which knew me from the beginning,— \f they 
would testify, — that after the most straitest sect of our religion — I lived — a 
Pharisee. And now — I stand — and am judged for the hope — of the promise — 
made of God unto our fathers : unto which promise — our twelve tribes, instantly 
serving God — day — and night, hope to come. For which hope's sake, — King 
Agrippa, I am accused of the Jews. Why should it be thought — a thing 
incredible with you, that God — should raise the dead? /verily thought — with 
myself, — that I ought to do many things — contrary to the name of Jesus — of 
Nazareth. "Which thing I also did — in Jerusalem: and many of the saints — 
did I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests ; and 
when they were put to death, — I gave my voice against them. And I punished 
them oft — in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme; and being 
exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. 
Whereupon — as I went to Damascus with authority and commission from the 
chief priests, at midday, — O king, — I saw — in the way — a light from heaven, 
(above the brightness of the sun,) shining round about me — and them which 
journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, — I heard a 
voice — speaking unto me, and saying — in the Hebrexo tongue, — Saul, Saul, why 
p>ersecutest thou me? it is hard for thee — to kick against the pricks. And I 
said, — "Who art thou, Lord ? And he said, I am Jesus — whom thou persecutest. 
But rise, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared unto thee for this pur- 
pose, to make thee a minister — and a witness — both of these things — which thou 
hast seen, — and of those things — in the which I will appear unto thee ; deliver- 
ing thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, unto whom now I send thee, 
to open their eyes', — and to turn them from darkness — to light, — and from the 
power of Satan — unto God, — that they may receive, forgiveness of sins, — and 
inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith — that is in me. "Where- 
upon, — O King Agrippa, I was not disobedient — unto the heavenly vision : but 
showed first — unto them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and throughout all the 
coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent and turn to 
God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes — the Jews caught me 
in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having therefore — obtained help 
of God, I continue — unto this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying 
none other things than those which the prophets and Moses — did say should 
come : that Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise 
from the dead, and should show light unto the people and to the Gentiles. 

And as he thus spake for himself, — Festus said — with a loud voice, — Paid, 
thou art beside thyself; much learning — doth make thee mad. But he said, I am 
not mad, most noble Festus; but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. 
For the king knoweth of these things, — before whom also I speak freely : for I 
am persuaded — that none of these things — are hidden from him; for this thing 
was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, — believest thou the prophets'? I 
know that thou believest. Then Agrippa — said unto Paul, — Almost — thou per- 
BUadest me to be a Christian. And Paul said, I would to God, that not only 
thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, — and altogether such 


as 7am, — except these bonds. And when he had thus spoken, the "king rose up, 
and the governor, and Bernice, and they that sat with them : and when they 
were gone aside, they talked between themselves, — saying, This man doeth 
nothing worthy of death — or of bonds. Then said Agrlppa — unto Festus, This 
man might have been set at liberty, if he had not appealed unto Ccesar. 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf — on the fold, 
And his cohorts — were gleaming — in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of his spears — was like stars — on the sea 
"Where the blue wave — rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest — when Summer is green, 
That host, — with their banners, — at sunset were seen; 
Like the leaves of the forest — when Autumn hath blown, 
That host, — on the morrow, — lay — withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death — spread his wings on th' blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers — waked deadly and chill, 
And their hearts — but once heaved, — and forever were still. 

And there — lay the steed, — with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them — there rolVd not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping — lay white on the turf, 
And cold — as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there — lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
"With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners — alone, 
The lances — unlifted, the trumpets — unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur — are loud in their wail; 
And the idols are broke — in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentiles, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted — like snow in the glance of the Lord. 


By the rivers of Bab-y-lon, there — we sat down, — yea, — we wept, when we 
remembered Zion. 

We hanged our harps — upon the willows — in the midst thereof. 

For there — they (that carried us away captive) required of us a song ; and they 
that wasted us — required of us mirth, saying, Sing us — one of the songs of Zion. 

How shall we — sing the Lord's song — in a strange land? 

If I forget thee, — Jerusalem, let my right hand — forget her cunning. 

If I do not remember thee, — let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; 
if I prefer not Jerusalem — above my chief joy. 

Eemember, — Lord, — the children of Edom — in the day of Jerusalem; — 
who said, Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation thereof. 

O daughter — of Bab-y-lon, who art to be destroyed ; happy shall he be that 
rewardeth thee as thou hast served — us. 

Hapjjy shall he be, that taketh — and dasheth thy little ones against the stones. 



The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down — in green pastures : he leadeth me — beside the 
still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me — in the paths of righteousness for his 
names sake. 

Yea, though I walk — through the valley — of the shadow of death, I will 
fear no evil : for thou art with me; thy rod — and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me— in the presence of mine enemies: thou 
anointest my head with oil; ray cup — runneth over. 

Surely— goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I 
will dwell in the house of the Lord — for ever. 


The earth — is the Lord 's, and the fullness thereof; the world, — and they that 
dwell therein. 

For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods. 

Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand — in his 
holy place ? 

He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart ; who hath not lifted up his soul 
unto vanity, — nor sworn deceitfully. 

He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness — from the God 
of his salvation. 

This is the generation of them that seek him, that seek thy face, O Jacob. 

Lift up your heads, O ye gates! and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; 
and the King of glory shall come in. 

Who is this King of glory ? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord — mighty 
in battle. 

Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and 
the King — of glory shall come in. 


It. came— upon a midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old, 
From angels — bending near the earth — 

To touch their harps of gold : — 
"Peace on the earth, — good-will to men 

From heaven's all-gracious King f — 
The world in solemn stillness — lay 

To hear the angels — sing. 

Still through the cloven skies they come 

With peaceful wings unfurled ; 
And still — their heavenly — music— floats 

O r er all the weary world; 


Above its sad — and lowly — plains 

They bend on hov'ring wing. 
And ever o'er the Babel — sou/ids 

The blessed angels sing. 

But with the woes of sin and strife 

The world hath suffered long ; 
Beneath the angel strain have rolled — 

Two thousand years of wrong. 
And man — at war with man, — hears not 

The love-song which they bring : — 
Oh! hush the noise. — ye men of strife, 

And hear the angels sing. 

And ye, — beneath life's — crushing load, — 

Whose forms are bending low, 
Who toil along the climbing way 

With painful steps and d 
Look now ! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing ; — 
Oh ! rest beside the weary road, 

And hear the angels sing. 

For lo, the days are hastening on, 

By prophet bards foretold, 
When with the ever-circling years 

Comes round the age of gold; 
When peace shall over all the earth 

Its ancient splendors fling, 
And the whole world send back the song 

Which now the angels sing. 


Oh, sing unto the Lord — a nev: song ; for he hath done marvelous things : 
his right hand, and his holy arm. hath gotten him the victory. 

The Lord hath made known his salvation: his righteousness hath he o 
showed — in the sight of the heathen. 

He hath remembered his mercy and his truth toward the house of h 
all the ends of the earth — have seen the salvation of our God. 

Make a joyful noise — unto the Lord, all the earth : make a loud noise, and 
rejoice, and sing praise. 

Sing unto the Lord with the harp; with the harp, and the voice of a psalm. 

With trumpets — and sound of cornet make a joyful noise before the 
Lord, — the King. 

Let the sea — roar, and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that a. .■>'.'. 

Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills hejoyfid together 

Before the Lord; for he cometh to judge the earth : with righteousness shall 
he judge the icorld, and the people with equity. 




Angel, roll the rock away! 
Death, — yield up thy mighty prey I 
See ! he rises from the tomb, 
Glowing in immortal — bloom. 

'T is the Savior f angels, — raise — 
Fame's eternal trump of praise! 
Let the world's remotest bound 
Hear — the joy-inspiring sound ! 

, Shout, — ye saints, in rapt'rous song ! 

Let the strains he sweet — and — strong ! 
Hail the rising God, this morn, 
Prom his sepulcher — new-born I 

Powers of heaven, — seraphic choirs, — 
Sing, — and strike your sounding lyres J 
Sons of men, in humble strain, 
Sing your mighty Savior's — reign ! 
Ev'ry note with — wonder swell! — 
Sin o'erthrown, — and captive — hell ! 
Where is hell's once dreaded king ? 
Where, O death! thy mortal sting? 


The spacious firmament on high, 

And all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their Great Original proclaim. 

Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display, 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly to the list'ning earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
While all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

"What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; 
What though no real voice or sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ; 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
The Hand that made us is Divine! 




See — from Zion's sacred mountain 
Streams of living — water flow ! 

God has open'd there — a fountain: 
This supplies the plains below. 

They are blessed 
Who its sovereign — virtues know. 

Through ten thousand channels flowing, 
Streams — of mercy — find their way; 

Life and health and joy bestowing. 
They the Savior's love display. 

O ye — nations, 
Hail the long-expected day ! 

Gladden'd by the flowing treasure, — 

All — enriching as it goes, 
Lo ! the desert smiles — with pleasure. 

Buds and blossoms as the rose : 
Etfry object 

Sings for joy — where'er it flows. 

Trees of life — the banks adorning, — 
Yield their fruit to all around. 

They who eat — are saved from mourning ; 
Pleasures spring and hopes abound: 

Fair their portion ! 
Endless life with glory crown' d. 


The morning dawns : celestial light 
Dispels the gloomy shades of night : 
Truth rears her standard once again, 
And love, — celestial love, shall reign. 

The Heavenly — Sun, the Lord our God, 
Beams his refulgent rays abroad : 
He comes to bless the humble soul, 
And spread his truth — from pole — to pole. 

Now nations barbWous, rude, and blind, 
In Jesus shall salvation find : 
Idols before his name shall fall, 
And he alone be — Lord of all. 

Thus — ev'ry land and clime shall hear 
The Lord is God, — his name revere ; 
From sin, and death, and darkness rise, 
And join the concert of the skies. 


There is a land — of pure delight, 

"Where sai7its — immortal — reign ! 
Eternal day excludes the night, 

And pleasures — banish pain. 

There — everlasting spring abides, 
And never-fading flowers; 

Death, (like a narrow sea,) divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields, — beyond the swelling flood, 
Stand dressed — in living green: 

So to the Jews fair Canaan — stood, 
While Jordan — rolled between. 

But timorous mortals start — and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea; 
And linger, — trembling on the brink, 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh ! could we make our doubts remove 
Those gloomy doubts that rise, 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeelouded eyes ; — 

Could we — but climb where Moses stood, 
And view the landscape o'er, 

Not Jordan 's stream — nor deaths cold flood 
Should fright us from the shore. 

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS. Charles Mackay. 
Tell me, — ye winged winds, 

That round my pathway roar, 
Do you not know some spot 

Where mortals — weep no more? 
Some lone — and pleasant — dell, 

Some valley — in the west, 
Where, — free from toil — and pain, 
The weary soul may rest? 
The loud wind softened to a whisper low, 
And sighed — for pity as it whispered — "No!" 
Tell me, — thou mighty — deep, 

Whose billows round me — play, 
Know'st thou some favored spot, 

Some island far away, 
Where weary man may find 

The bliss — for which he sighs, 
Where sorrow never — lives 
And friendship never dies? 
The loud waves, — rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer — "No! 


And thou, — serenest moon, 
That with such holy face 
Dost look upon the earth, 

Asleep — in night 1 s embrace, 
Tell me, in all thy round, 

Hast thou not seen some spot 
"Where miserable — man 
Might find a happier — lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded — "No!" 
Tell me, — my secret soul, 

Oh ! tell me, — Hope and Faith, 
Is there no resting--p\sice 

From sorrow, — sin, — and death ? 
Is there no happy spot 

Where mortals may be blest. 
Where grief may find a balm 
And weariness a rest ? 
Faith, — Hope, and Love, — best boons to mortals given, — 
Waved their bright wings, and whispered — "Yes! — in heaven!" 


The heavens — declare the glory of God ; and the firmament showeth his 

Day — unto day — uttereth speech, and night — unto night — showeth knowledge. 

There is no speech — nor language where their voice is not heard. 

Their line — is gone out through all the earth, — and their words to the end 
of the world. In them — hath he set a tabernacle for the sun. 

Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth (as a 
strong man) to run a race. 

His going forth — is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit — unto the 
ends of it ; and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof. 

The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the 
Lord is sure, making wise — the simple. 

The statutes of the Lord — are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment 
of the Lord — is pure, enlightening the eyes. 

The fear of the Lord — is clean, enduring for ever : the judgments of the 
Lord — are true and righteous altogether. 

More to be desired are they — than gold, yea, than much. fine gold: sweeter 
also — than honey — and the honey-comb. 

Moreover — by them is thy servant warned: and in keeping of them there is 
great reward. 

Who can understand his errors f cleanse thou me — from secret faults. 

Keep back thy servant also — from presumptuous sins; let them not have 
dominion over me : then — shall I be upright, and I shall be innocent from the 
great transgression. 

Let the words — of my mouth, and the meditation— of my heart be accept- 
able in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer. 


MY PSALM. Jphn G. Whittier. 

I mourn no more my vanished years ; 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west winds hlow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope and fear; 
But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plow no more a desert land 
To harvest weed and tare; 

The manna dropping from God's hand 
Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay 

Aside the toiling oar; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn, 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the autumn morn ; 
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 

Through fringed lids to heaven, 
And the pale aster in the brook 

Shall see its image given. 
The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 

The south wind softly sigh, 
And sweet, calm days in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 
Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong ; 
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 
But smiting hands shall learn to heal, 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I the more enjoy. 
All as God wills, who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told I 


Enough that blessings undeserved 

Have marked my erring track — 
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved 

His chastening turned me back. 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good. 

That death seems but a covered way 

Which opens into light, 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight. 

That care and trial seem at last, 

Through memory's sunset air, 
Like mountain ranges overpast, 

In purple distance fair. 

That all the jarring notes of life 

Seem blending in a psalm, 
And all the angles of its strife 

Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 

And so the west winds play ; 
And all the windows of my heart 

I open to the day. 


The Lord — is my light — and my salvation; whom — shall I fear ? the Lord is 
the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? 

When the wicked, — even mine enemies, and my foes, — came upon me — to eat 
up ray flesh, they stumbled and fell. 

Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though 
war — should rise against me, — in this will I be confident. 

One thing have I desired of the Lord, that — will I seek after; that I may 
dwell in the house of the Lord — all the days of life, to behold the beauty of the 
Lord, and to inquire in his temple. 

For in the time of trouble, — he shall hide me in his pavilion : in the secret 
of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock. 

And now shall mine head be lifted up — above mine enemies round about me: 
therefore will I offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy ; I will sing, yea, I will 
sing praises unto the Lord. 

Hear, — O Lord, when 1 cry with my voice : have mercy also upon me, and 
answer me. 

When thou saidst, Seek ye my face ; my heart — said unto thee, Thy face, 
Lord, will I seek. 

Side not thy face far from me; put not thy servant away in anger : thou 
hast been my help : leave me not, neither forsake me, God of my salvation. 


"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up. 

Teach me thy way, O Lord, and lead me in a plain path, because of mine 

Deliver me not over — unto the will of mine enemies: for false witnesses are 
risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty. 

I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord — in the 
land of the living. 

Wait — on the Lord: be of good courage, and he — shall strengthen thine 
heart : wait, I say, on the Lord. 


Vital spark — of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh, quit — this mortal frame; 
Trembling, — hoping, — lingering, — -flying. 
Oh, the pain, — the bliss, — of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, — cease thy strife, 
And let me languish — into life. 

Hark ! — they whisper ; angels say, 
"Sister spirit, — come away!" 
What is this — absorbs me quite, — 
Steals my senses, — shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirit, — draws my breath^ 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes; it disappears; 
Heaven — opens on my eyes ; my ears — 

With sounds seraphic ring : — 
Lend, lend your wings I I mount ! Iflyf 
11 O Grave, where — is thy victory ? 

O Death, where — is thy sting?' 7 


Storm — on the heaving waters! The vast sky — 
Is stooping — with its thunder. Cloud — on cloud 
Rolls heavily — in the darkness, like a shroud — 
Shaken by midnight's Angel — from on high; 
Through the thick sea-mist, faintly — and afar, 
Chorazin's watch-light — glimmers like a star, 
And (momently) the ghastly cloud-fires — play 
On the dark sea-wall of Capernaum' s bay ; 
And tower — and turret — into light spring forth, 
Like specters — starting from the storm-swept earth; 
And vast — and awful, Tabor's mountain form, 
Its Titan forehead — (naked to the storm,) 
Towers — for one instant, — full — and clear, — and then — 
Blends with the blackness — and the cloud again. 


And it is very terrible! The roar — 

Ascendeth unto heaven, and thunders back, 

Like the response of demons, — from the black 
Rifts — of the hanging tempests, — yawning o'er 

The wild waves — in their torment. Hark ! — the cry — 
Of the strong man — in his peril, piercing through 

The uproar of the waters — and the sky, 
As the rent bark — one moment — rides to view — 
On the tall billows, — with the thunder-cloud 
Closing around, — above her, like a shroud. 

He stood upon the reeling deck, — His form 

Made visible — by the lightning, and His brow 
Pale, and uncovered — to the rushing storm, 

Told of a triumph — man — may never know, — 
Power — underived — and mighty, — a Peace, — be still!" 

The great waves — heard Him, — and the storm's loud tone 
"Went moaning — into silence, — at His will; 

And the thick clouds, — where yet the lightning shone, 
And slept the latent thunder, rolled away 

Until no trace of tempest — lurked behind, 

Changing, — upon the pinions of the wind, 
To stormless wanderers, — beautiful — and gay. 

Dread Ruler — of the tempest! thou — before 

Whose presence — boweth the uprisen storm, — 
To whom the waves do homage — round the shore 

Of many an island's empire ! — if the form 
Of frail dust — beneath thine eye may claim 

Thy Infinite regard, — oh, breathe upon 
The storm — and darkness — of man's soul — the same 
Quiet — and peace — and humbleness which came 

O'er the roused waters, where thy voice had gone, — 
A minister of power, — to conquer — in thy name. 

" STILL WITH THEE." Mks. H. B. Stowe. 

Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh; 

When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; 
Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, 

Dawns the sweet consciousness, / am with thee. 

Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows, 

The solemn hush of nature newly born ; 
Alone with thee in breathless adoration, 

In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. 

As in the dawning, o'er the breathless ocean, 

The image of the morning star doth rest, 
So in this stillness thou beholdest only 

Thine image in the waters of my breast. 


When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, 
Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer; 

Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading : 
But sweeter still to wake, and find thee there. 

So shall it be at last in that bright morning 
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee. 

Oh, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, 
Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with thee ! 


I can not find thee. Still on restless pinion 

My spirit beats the void where thou dost dwell. 
I wander lost through all thy vast dominion, 
'And shrink beneath thy light ineffable. 

I can not find thee. Even when most adoring, 
Before thy throne I bend in lowliest prayer, 

Beyond these bounds of thought my thought upsoaring, 
From furthest quest comes back, — thou art not there. 

Yet high above the limits of my seeing, 
And folded far within the inmost heart, 

And deep below the deeps of conscious being, 
Thy splendor shineth : there, O God ! thou art. 

I can not lose thee. Still in thee abiding, 
The end is clear, how wide soe'er I roam; 

The law that holds the worlds my steps is guiding, 
And I must rest at last in thee, my home. 

THE LEPER. N. P. Wilms. 

"Room — for the leper! room!" And as he came 
The cry passed on — "Room for the leper! room!' 1 

And aside they stood — 
Matron — and child — and pitiless manhood, — all 
Who met him on his way, and let him pass. 
And onward — through the open gate he came, 
A leper, with the ashes — on his brow, 
Sackcloth — about his loins, and on his lip 
A covering, — stepping painfully — and slow, 
And with a difficult utterance, like one 
Whose heart — is with an iron nerve put down, 
Crying, " Unclean! unclean!" 

'T was now the first — 
Of the Judean autumn, — and the leaves, 
Whose shadows — lay so still — upon his path, 
Had put their beauty forth — beneath the eye 
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young 
And eminently beautiful, — and life 


Mantled — in eloquent fullness — on his lip, 
And sparkled — in his glance ; and in his mien- 
There was a gracious pride — that every eye 
Followed with benisons ; and this — was he! 
With the soft airs of summer — there had come 
A torpor on his frame, — which not the speed 
Of his best barb, — nor music, — nor the blast 
Of the bold huntsman's horn, — nor aught — that stirs 
The spirit — to its bent, — might drive away. 
The blood — beat not as wont — within his veins ; 
Dimness — crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth 
Fettered his limbs — like palsy, and his mien, 
(With all its loftiness,) seemed struck with eld. 
Even his voice was changed — a languid moan 
Taking the place of the clear silver key; 
And brain — and sense grew faint, as if the light — 
And very air — were steeped in sluggishness. 
He strove with it — a while, as manhood — will, 
Ever too proud — for weakness, — till the rein — 
Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise 
The arrowy jereed, — like an aspen, — shook. 
Day — after day — he lay — as if asleep : ^ 

His skin — grew dry — and bloodless, and white scales, 
(Circled with livid purple,) — covered him, 
— And Helon — was a leper ! 

It was noon, 

And Helon knelt — beside a stagnant pool — 

In the lone wilderness, — and bathed his brow, 

Hot with the burning leprosy, — and touched 

The loathsome water — to his fevered lips, 

Praying — that he might be so blest — to die! 

Footsteps approached, — and, with no strength to flee, — 

He drew the covering — closer on his lip, 

Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds 

Of the coarse sackcloth — shrouding up his face, 

He fell upon the earth — till they should pass. 

Nearer — the Stranger came, — and — bending o'er 

The leper's prostrate form, — pronounced his name — 

11 Helon!" The voice — was like the master-tone — 

Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet; 

And the dull pulses of disease — awoke, 

And — for a moment — beat beneath the hot 

And leprous scales — with a restoring thrill. 

" Helon ! arise ! " and he forgot his curse, — 

And rose — and stood before Him. 

He looked on Helon — earnestly — a while, — 

As if his heart were moved, — and — (stooping down) 

He took a little water in his hand, 


And laid it on his brow, — and said, — "Be clean !" 
And lo ! the scales fell from him, — and his blood 
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 
And his dry palms — grew moist, and on his brow — 
The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
His leprosy — was cleansed, — and he fell down 
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, — and worshiped him. 


It must be so, — Plato, thou reason est well! — 

Else — whence the pleasing hope, — this fond desire, — 

This longing — after immortality ? 

Or whence — this secret dread, and inward horror, 

Of falling into naught? Why — shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles — at destruction ? 

} T is the divinity — that stirs within us ; 

'T is Heaven itself — that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity — to man. 

Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought 1 

Through what variety — of untried being, 

Through what new scenes— and changes — must we pass ? 

The wide, — the unbounded prospect, lies before me; 

But shadows, — clouds, — and darkness — rest upon it. 

Here — will I hold. If there 's a power above us, 

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 

Through all her works,) He — must delight in virtue; 

And that — which He delights in must be happy. 

But when? or where? This world — was made for Ccesar. 

I 'm weary of conjectures. This — must end them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword.] 

Thus — am I doubly armed : — my death — and life, 

My bane — and antidote — are both before me ; — 

This — in a moment — brings me to an end; 

But this — informs me — I shall never die. 

The soul, {secured in her existence,) smiles 

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 

The stars — shall fade away, the sun himself 

Grow dim — with age, and nature — sink in years; 

But thou — shalt flourish — in immortal youth, 

Unhurt — amidst the wars of elements, 

The wrecks — of matter — and the crush — of worlds. 




Gesture and Deportment — Arbitrary Kules — Pantomime — Necessity 
of Gesture — Faults of Orators — Grace and Dignity — Study of 
the Passions — Observations of Nature — Selections. 

Gesture and deportment, or the position and movement of the body 
and limbs, under the influence of changing mental condition, are so 
multiform that we despair of doing them justice in a short essay ; nor 
can we with any degree of accuracy give rules which will be a safe 
guide, and by which persons may acquire graceful and at the same 
time natural attitudes and movements of the body. 

There have been elaborate directions given by authors, copiously 
illustrated by engravings and characters, indicating the right and left, 
up and down movements of the arms, etc., which may serve as a pos- 
sible guide to students in avoiding angular and ungraceful gestures. 
But the great defect has been in giving arbitrary rules without direct- 
ing attention to the cause that prompts gesticulation, and without 
defining the part it is to take in adding force and beauty to decla- 

The strongly accented and emphatic force, and the great modu- 
lating capacity of our language, gives us a range and copiousness 
of expression that much lessens the need of the pantomimic action 
of the limbs, figure, and face which other languages seem to require. 
Yet deportment and gesture must be included as a part of delivery, 
and certainly belongs to rhetorical expression. We moderns set too 
small an estimate on their effective assistance in the pronunciations of 
oratory, to which the ancient Greeks and Romans attached so much 
importance. The rhetoricians of those days must have taught the 
science of gesture as well as of vocality : indeed they were of divided 
opinion which should take the preference in giving impressive effect. 
Quintilian's saying is often quoted, that "it is not of so much mo- 
ment what our compositions are as how they are pronounced ;" while 
Cicero, Pericles, Demosthenes, Aristotle, and other renowned orators 
were of the same opinion. 

We must admit that if we were thrown among a race of people, 
without any knowledge of their vernacular, the pantomimic language 


of the body and face would be the first thing we should resort to to 
make ourselves understood. The methods of the Chinese, cited by- 
Fowler in his "English Grammar," is an illustration of the expressive 
power of this silent but powerful language. He says: "The absence 
of an alphabet has deprived the Chinese of an important means of 
preserving a uniformity of spoken language through any part of the 
empire. A native of China would be altogether unintelligible speak- 
ing his local patois at a distance of tw^o hundred miles from home ; 
and yet, like Arabic figures in Europe, the written character is every 
where the same throughout the whole of China, though in reading 
and speaking the local pronunciation makes, in fact, separate lan- 
guages. The Chinese prefer their mode of speaking to the mind 
through the eye, by means of visible signs, as superior to spoken 
words addressed to the ear. Indeed, so far do they carry their at- 
tachment to this mode of communication, that it is not uncommon 
there to see men conversing rapidly together by tracing characters in 
the air." 

We must agree therefore with the ancients that there is a power in 
the proper use of gesture that should not be overlooked by the student 
who expects to shine in the forum, in the pulpit, or on the stage. For 
the law has not changed ; gesture is as necessary now as in the days of 
Demosthenes. The sight as well as the ear needs instruction. It is 
said that the man who can speak two languages with ease possesses the 
power of two men. It is equally true that the person who can with 
fluency and grace speak the two languages of speech and gesture 
conveys in what he says the force of two men. Such a one truly 
in earnest is a host in himself, and speaks with an authority that 
carries its own conviction. Not so the untaught, uncertain speaker : 
doubtfulness impedes his utterance; his weak, unexpressive move- 
ments distress us, and awkward and untimely thrusts disgust us. 

We admire the orator who stands up in full possession of himself 
and his subject. He will require no such accessories as pulling at his 
watch-chain to keep himself busy, or of resting his hands in his pock- 
ets to hold himself up, or to fumble a paper to employ his fingers, or 
take off and put on his spectacles every few minutes to see his own 
ideas. Nor do we like to see the speaker who is unable to stand alone, 
and supports his elbows on a desk ; nor one who tosses his body up and 
down as though it were a spiral spring, elevated by the lightness and 
depressed by the weight of his ideas. Neither do we fancy the rock- 
ing to and fro from heel to toe, nor the standing like a wax figure with 
both pedestals like perpendicular parallel lines, with arms to match. 


Nor is it pleasant to see the arms work with an angular jerk or straight 
up and down movement, or flying off in such spasmodic efforts as sug- 
gest internal wires and cog-wheels worked by crank. Nor should a 
speaker come to the rostrum displaying his manner of cleaning his 
nose; in appearance saying to his audience, "I am getting ready as 
fast as possible ; " then crowd his handkerchief back into his pocket in 
a business-like way, jerk his coat into place with his shoulders, which 
says, "At last I am ready." All these are significant gestures, but not 
relevant to the occasion nor respectful to the audience. 

What then is gesture? It is the pathognomy of the passions, senti- 
ments, and thoughts, or their mode of expressing themselves by panto- 
mimic movements of the body, limbs, and face. This is its office, which 
suggests all natural movements, and these can only be effective by per- 
fectly expressing the passion or sentiment of which they are to be the 
translators. There must be no "outdoing Termagant;" but "suit the 
action to the word, the word to the action." Every emotion has its 
own natural symbol. 

If we wish to make gesture the graceful and dignified assistant to 
declamation and acting, instead of a system of forced movements and 
unexpressive motions or painful bodily contortions, we must become 
close and critical observers of the mute manifestations of different 
states and conditions of mind, and imitate them. Study persons when 
under the excitement of combative and destructive passions ; see the 
clenched hand, the forcible, straight-line movements of the arms, the 
defensive, defiant position of the body, and the firm bracing of the feet ; 
and the opposite manifestations of fear — the relaxed and shrinking 
body, with hands thrown up, palms outward, and the fingers separated 
and bent as if to w T ard off the danger. Closely akin to these are the 
signs of horror, with the wild look of the eye. Again, observe the up- 
lifted hands of devotion and reverence, pointing the upward tendencies 
of those faculties ; and the broader and more flowing movements of the 
arms under the excited imagination of the general poetical sentiments ; 
the outstretched hand and downward palm of the benediction; in 
love, the soft serenity of countenance, the languishing eyes and sweet- 
ness of voice; the bright expectant look of hope; the poised and 
winged appearance of flight ; the joyful clasping of the hands in real- 
ized desire ; and the frowning brow and furtive and uneasy glances of 
hatred and revenge. 

These signs, given under the influence and excitement of the pas- 
sions, are infallible indicators of the uses of gesture, and open to us 
fully their importance in making declamation expressive and effective : 


and every one who intends to become an orator or an actor should 
keep his eyes open to this the language of nature. 

It may be argued that gesture should be spontaneous, and so it 
should. It should be that spontaneity that comes from limbs and 
muscles that have long been trained in obedience to ease and grace. 
The speaker's tones of voice should not be uppermost in his mind 
during the delivery of his oration ; but these must be obedient from 
previous training to express every shade of thought which the subject 
and occasion require. It must not be supposed that these matters 
relate to declamation only; they should be studied with the idea 
that the more perfectly we express ourselves the better instructors 
we become, and the greater our influence in the world. A life of 
noble purposes, ably and artistically given to the world, is a blessing 
to mankind. We glorify our Maker by the best use of the faculties 
he has given us for the elevation of ourselves and others. It is not 
the simple shouting of his name which glorifies it. We should express 
the beauty, variety, and greatness of his endowments by purest pur- 
poses and noblest efforts. 


With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 

" Work — work — work 

"While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It 's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work. 

Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam and gusset and band, 

Band and gusset and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep 

And sew them on in a dream ! 


Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags ; 
This shattered roof, and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

Work — work — work 

From weary chime to chime ; 
Work — work — work, 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band and gusset and seam, 

Seam and gusset and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

Work — work — work 

In the dull December light, 
And work — work — work 

When the weather is warm and bright ; 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal I 

Oh ! but for one short hour — 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! 

O men with sisters dear! 

O men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stich, — 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once with a double thread 

A shroud as well as a shirt. 


But why do I talk of Death ? 

That phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own 

Because of the fasts I keep. 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap!" 


Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the 
tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the 
/own-crier spoke my linos. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, — 
thus: but use all gently: for in the very torrent, — tempest, and (as I may say) 
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may 
give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to see a robustious periwig- 
pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, — to very rags, to split the ears of the 
groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable 
dumb shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing 
Termagant; it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame 
neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the 
word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep 
not the modesty of nature ; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of 
playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is to hold, as 'twere, 
the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, 
and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this, 
overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can not but 
make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allow- 
ance, o'erweigh a ^hole theater of others. Oh, there be players that I have 
seen play — and heard others praise, and that highly — not to speak it profanely, 
that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, 
nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's 
journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity 
so abominably. 

Sitting in the dusky light, 
Watching shadows of the night 
Darkly fall o'er distant hill 
While the world is calm and still, 
Moonbeams come with fairy gleams, 
Filling all my heart with dreams, 
Lighting up the days by-gone, 
Hallowing all the years to come. 

Shimmering through the leaves so bright, 
Dancing on the casement white, 
Falling golden on the floor, 
Beams of radiance round me pour; 


Golden glories glad the gloom, 
Streams of gold light up the room ; 
Ever dancing, ever gay, 
Round me gentle moonbeams play, 

Dancing joyous at my feet, 
Weaving golden threads so sweet, 
With dark fancies woof the night, 
Giving glimmerings of the light 
That will gild my future years, 
Making rainbows of my tears. . 
Then, all ye darker thoughts, away 
While sweet moonbeams round me play. 


Brightly danced the shimmering moonlight over Oberon's fair isle, 
Hallowing mountain, vale, and river with its mellow, lambent smile j 
Peering through the moaning forest as it echoed Ocean's roar, 
Flecking with a wild mosaic all its hidden mossy floor; 

Not more lightly, 

Not more brightly, 
Than at midnight danced the fairies its bewildering mazes o'er. 

Sweetly fell the tinkling music of their tiny tripping feet, 

As they rose and fell so airily, in low, harmonious beat ; 

And their gem-bespangled garments rustled in the giddy round, 

Blithely whirling out their gladness on the moonlit forest ground; — 

Far more cheerily, 

Far more merrily, 
Than upon Rinaldo's spirit fell the strange discordant sound ! 

For he sought the lonely forest at the silent midnight hour, 
That its passion-hushing stillness o'er his spirit might have power, — 
For the maiden that he worshiped laughed his trembling love to scorn — 
He was but an humble peasant — she a noble lady born ! 

And the dancing 

Sprites, advancing 
In their merry whirl, seemed mocking every trembling hope forlorn. 

Suddenly toward Rinaldo they approached in bright array, 
Closed about the 'wildered lover, and began a dance more gay, 
Singing blithely to the measure of their tiny tripping feet, 
As they fell and rose so nimbly in their low harmonious beat ! 

"We can see the lights and shadows play around the hapless lover — 
We can build our fairy bridges so that love will soon pass over ; 
We 've a curb and we ' ve a bridle that will fit the proudest maiden, 
And we've golden bells to grace them — golden bells with true love laden. 
Oh ! the fairies weave the meshes 
Of the net which Cupid holds, 
And the tiny bells they tinkle 
Are the bait with which he trolls. 


While they throw their curb and bridle 

Over all that he enfolds ! 

Set the fairy bells to ringing ! 

Cure the heart that pride is stinging t 

Build a bridge the slighted lover 

May unto his bride pass over!" 

Oh, the ringing of the bells ! 

How across the heart it swells ! 
And Kinaldo's spirit dances at the ringing of the bells ; 

Noble pride his heart is filling, 

O'er his breast a joy distilling 
With the ringing joyous music of the golden fairy bells I 

Then a shaking 

And a quaking, 

Lo, the forest sod is breaking ! 
And Corilla stands before him, at the ringing of the bells! 

Oh, the ringing of the bells, 

How across the heart it swells ! 
And Corilla's spirit dances with the ringing of the bells ! 

The scorn that curled her ruby lip — the pride that fired her eye, 
The fairy-bells had brought them wings, and taught them how to fly; 
And when the merry music ceased a smile beamed o'er her face, 
Such as before Kinaldo's eye in vain had sought to trace; 

Then a rustling 

And a bustling, 
And their ranks the fairies parted : 

Then advancing 

Gaily dancing, 
Both Corilla and Rinaldo as from out a dream were started. 

Lips had met — and each gay fairy 
Shouted for the bridge, so airy ! 
Lips had met — and bells were ringing, 
And each elfin sprite was singing: 
" We can crush the pride so hollow, 
Making room for love to follow ! 
We can build a bridge the lover 
May unto his bride pass over ! " 


What a strange thing is the human brain, the seat both of physical sensa- 
tion and of spiritual perception ! Who shall say how intimately the two are 
blended — how far their kingdoms are extended over each other! When we 
reflect upon the fact that nothing is ever entirely forgotten — that although we 
may not recall at our will the memory of what once was learned or known, 
yet that every thought we once had is still stored away in those small, strange 
chambers within our heads, it is enough to inspire us with awe at our own 
being ; and still more, at the wonderful Power which fashioned us. Eecollec- 


tions of the past called back by the association of the perfume of a flower or a 
strain of music; the memories which rush through the brain of the drowning 
or the falling man, showing him every event of his life treasured up within 
him; the ravings of the old Scotch servant, who talked Hebrew in her de- 
lirium — all go to prove that nothing is ever wholly lost which once was ours. 
How strange to think of these silent, unconscious inhabitants slumbering 
within our brain, which may at any time start up in witness of past pain 
and pleasure, error and good ! Space they can not occupy, for they are 
multitudinous beyond expression, yet they are local. Spiritual they are, but 
indefinitely connected with matter. They belong to us, and not to another. 
They are in our heads, and not in our feet. What is it that thus chains the 
material to the immaterial? Secrets hidden away in the keeping of God are 
many of them mysteries, and vain is the attempt of science and philosophy 
to expound them. Science may explain all laws of matter, but not the laws 
of mind; they are of the impenetralia of the spiritual." 

THE KATYDID. O. W. Holmes. 
I love to hear thine earnest voice 

Wherever thou art hid, 
Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid! 
Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks, — 

Old gentlefolks are they, — 
Thou say'st an undisputed thing 

In such a solemn way. 
Thou art a female, Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes, 

So petulant and shrill. 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree, 
A knot of spinster Katydids; — 

Do Katydids drink tea ? 
Oh, tell me where did Katy live, 

And what did Katy do ? 
And was she very fair and young, 

And yet so wicked too? 
Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
I warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate has done. 
Dear me! I'll tell you all about 

My fuss with little Jane 
And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black, 

Or wet their eyes of blue, 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do ? 


Ah no ! the living oak shall crash, 

That stood for ages still, 
The rock shall rend its mossy base, 

And thunder down the hill, 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

Whose name she knows so well. 
Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings, 

Beneath the autumn sun, 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice, 

And lift her drooping lid, 
And then the child of future years 

Shall learn what Katy did. 

Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, 
oppressed by cares that belonged to a former period, labors under a burden 
not its own. At the close of life the dying man beholds with anguish that 
his days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly commenced. 
Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its 
value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is per- 
formed aright, from not being performed in due season. 

BEAUTY. De. Channing. 

In looking at our nature we discover among its admirable endowments the 
sense or perception of Beauty. We see the germ of this in every human being, 
and there is no power which admits greater cultivation ; and why should it 
not be cherished in all ? It deserves remark that the provision for this prin- 
ciple is infinite in the universe. There is but a very minute portion of the crea- 
tion which we can turn into food and clothes or gratification for the body ; but 
the whole creation may be used to minister to the sense of beauty. Beauty is 
an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of the spring; 
it waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass ; it haunts 
the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the 
precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the moun- 
tains, the clouds, the heaven, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow 
with beauty. The universe is its temple ; and those men who are alive to it 
can not lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every 
side. Now this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and 
pure, so congenial with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, 
that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, 
as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. 
An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endow- 
ment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the 
choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most 
exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor 
child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation; 


how should I want to open their eyes and to help them to comprehend and feel 
the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every hus- 
bandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist; and how much 
would his existence be elevated could he see the glory which shines forth in 
their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression ! I have spoken only of the 
beauty of nature; but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the ele- 
gant arts, and especially in literature ? The best books have most beauty. The 
greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way 
most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit 
attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man in whom the sensibility 
to the beautiful is not cherished ; and I know of no condition in life from which 
it should be excluded. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand ; 
and it seems to me to be most important to those conditions where coarse labor 
tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty 
in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that 
the people at large may partake of refined gratifications which have hitherto 
been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few. 

MORNING IN SPRING. Geo. D. Prentice. 

How sweet — the landscape ! Morning — twines 

Her tresses round the brow of Day, 
And bright mists — o'er the forest pines 

Like happy spirits — float away 
To revel — on the mountain's crown, 
Whence the glad stream comes — shouting down 
Through woods — and rocks — that hang on high, 
Like clouds — against the deep-blue sky. 

The woven sounds of bird — and stream 

Are falling beautiful and deep 
Upon the spirit like a dream 

Of music — on the ear of sleep; 
And sxoeetly — from the dewy bowers 
Soft murmurs, — like the breath of flowers^ 
Are winding — through the purple grove 
And blending — with the notes of love. 

A cloud — is on the sky above, 

And calmly — o'er the young year's blue 
'Tis coming — like a thing of love 

To gladden — in the rising dew; 
Its white waves — with the twilight blend, 
And gentle spirits — seem to bend, 
From its unrolling folds — to hear 
The glad sounds — of our joyous sphere. 

The lake, unruffled by the breeze, 

Smiles in its sweet, unbroken rest, 
As if 't were dreaming — of the trees 

And blossoms — pictured on its — breast 


Its depths — are glowing bright — and fair, 
And the deep skies — seem hollowed thore, 
&o/rf-trembling — as they felt the thrill 
Of music — echoed from the hill. 

The living soul of beauty fills 

The air — with glorious visions — bright, 
They wander — o'er the far-off hills, — 

And linger — in the clear blue light; 
Off to the breathing heavens they go, 
Along the earth — they live — and glow, 
Shed o'er the lake — their happy smiles, 
And beckon — to the glittering isles. 

Oh,— at this hour — when air and earth — 
Gush out — with love — and joy and light, 

And songs of gladness — hail the birth 
Of all that 's beautiful — and bright, 

Each pulse — beats high, each heart — is blown 

To flame, the spirit — drinks the tone 

Of higher worlds — and melts away 

In visions — of eternal day. 


"Wizard. Lochiel, — Lochiel ! beware of the day — 
When the lowlands shall meet thee — in battle array! 
For a field of the dead — rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden — are scattered in flight. 
They rally, — they bleed — for their kingdom — and crown / 
Woe, woe — to the riders — that trample them down I 
Proud Cumberland prances, — insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms — are trod — to the plain/ 
But hark ! through the fast flashing lightning of war, 
What steed — to the desert — flies frantic — and far? 
'Tis thine, — oh Glenullin ! whose bride — shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night — at the gate. 
A steed — comes at morning ; no rider is there ; 
But its bridle — is red — with the sign of despair. 
Weep, — Albin! to death — and captivity led ! 
Oh,weep ! but thy tears — can not number the dead. 
For a merciless sword — on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden I that reeks — with the blood of the brave. 

Lochiel. Go — preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden — so dreadful appear, 
Draw, — (dotard,) — around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle — to cover — the phantoms — of flight. 

Wizard. Ha! laugh' st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume — shall be torn I — 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle — exultingly forth 


From his hotne — in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding — he rode, 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad : 
But down — let him stoop — from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why — flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, — like stars — from the firmament cast ? 
*Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, — that beacons — the darkness of heaven. 
Oh ! crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise — on the battlements 1 height, 
Heaven 1 s fire is around thee — to blast — and to burn; 
Return to thy dwelling ; all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes — shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother — scream o'er her famishing brood! 

Lochiel. False Wizard, — avaunt! I have marshal' d ray clan; 
Their swords — are a thousand, — their hearts — are but one ! 
They are true — to the last of their blood — and their breath, 
And — like reapers — descend — to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome — be Cumberland s steed to the shock! 
Let him dash his proud foam — like a wave — on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, — and woe to his cause, — 
When Albin — her claymore — indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains — to victory crowd, 
Clanronald — the dauntless, — and Moray — the proud; 
All plaided — and plumed — in their tartan array 

Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware — of the day! 
For dark — and despairing — my sight I may seal, 
But man — can not cover — what God would reveal ; 
'T is the sunset of life — gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events — cast their shadows — -before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes — shall ring 
With the blood-hounds — that bark — for thy fugitive king. 
Lo ! anointed by Heaven — with the vials of wrath, 
Behold — where he flies — on his desolate path ! 
Now, — in darkness — and billows, — he sweeps from my sight; 
Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, — and cover his flight! — 
'T is finish 1 d! Their thunders — are husKd — on the moors; 
Culloden — is lost, — and my country — deplores! 
But where — is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? — 
For the red eye of battle — is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the oceaw-wave, — banish 1 d,— forlorn, 
Like a limb — from his country — cast bleeding — and torn ? 
Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; 
The war-drum — is muffled, — and black — is the bier; 
His death-he\] — is tolling ! O ! Mercy dispel 
Yon sight, — that it freezes — my bosom — to tell ! 
Life — flutters — convulsed — in his quivering limbs, 


And his blood-streaming nostril — in agu?u/ swims. 
Accurtld — be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart shall be thrown — ere it ceases to beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes — to poison the gale 

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale, 
For fierer — shall Albin — a destiny meet — 
So black — with dishonor, — so foul — with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks — should be strew' d in their gore, 
Like ocearc-weeds — heap'd on the swr/'-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, — untainted — by flight — or by chains, 
"While the kindling of life — in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor — exult — or in death — be laid loiv, — 
With his back — to the field, — and his feet — to the foe! 
And, leaving in battle — no blot on his name, 
Look proudly — to heaven — from the death-bed — of fame I 


Eternal Spirit— of the chainless mind! 
Brightest — in dungeons, liberty, thou art, 
For there— thy habitation— is the heart, — 

The heart— which love of thee— alone can bind. 

They chained us — each — to a column stone, 
And we were three, — yet each — alone; — 
"We could not move — a single pace, 
"We could not see — each other's face, 
But — with th&t pale — and livid — light 
That made us strangers — in our sight. 
And thus — together, — yet apart, 
Fettered — in hand, but pined — in heart; 
'T was still — some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken — to each other's speech, 
And each — turn comforter — to each, 
With some new hope, or legend old ; 
But even these — at length — grew cold. 

7— was the eldest — of the three, 

And to uphold — and cheer the rest, 
I ought to do — and did my best, — 

And each — did well — in his degree. 

The youngest — whom my father loved, 

Because my mother's brow was given 

To him, — with eyes — as blue — as heaven, 
For him — my soul was sorely moved ; 

For he was beautiful — as day, 

And in his natural — spirit — gay; 

With tears — for naught — but others' ills, 

And then — they flowed like mountain rills, 

Unless he could assuage the woe — 

Which he abhorr'd— to view below. 


The other — was as pure — of mind, 
But formed to combat — with his kind; 
Strong — in his frame, and of a mood 
Which — 'gainst the world — in war had stood, 
And perished — in the foremost rank 

With joy: — but not in chains — to pine; — 
His spirit — withered — with their clank, — 

I saw it silently — decline. 

He loathed — and put away his food, — 
It was not — that 't was coarse — and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like — had little care ; 
The milk — drawn from the mountain goat, 
Was changed — for water — from the moat; 
Our bread — was such as captive's tears 
Have moistened — many a thousand years 
Since man — first pent his /e^ow-men 
Like brutes — within an iron den. 
But what were these — to us — or him ? 
These — wasted not his heart — or limb ; 
My brother's soul — was of that mold, 
Which in a palace — had grown cold 
Had his free breathing — been denied 
The range — of the steep mountain's side ; — 
But why — delay — the truth ? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand, — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend — and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died, — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him — a shallow grave, 
Even from the cold earth — of our cave. 

I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse — in dust — whereon the day 
Might shine, — it was a foolish thought, — 
But then — within my brain — it wrought 
That even in death — his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer, — . 
They coldly laughed, — and laid him there; 
The flat — and turfless earth — above 
The being — we so much did love; — 
His empty chain — above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument. 

But he, the favorite — and the flower, 
Most cherished — since his natal hour, 


His martyred father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, — for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched — now, and one — d&y free; 
He too was struck, and — day — by day 
Was withered— on the stalk away. 

God! it is & fearful thing — 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood; — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood; 

1 've seen the sick — and ghastly bed 
Of sin — delirious — with its dread; — 

But these — were horrors, — this — was woe — 
Unmixed — with such, — but sure — and slow. 

He faded, — and, so calm — and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender, — kind, 
And grieved — for those he left behind; 
"With all the while — a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery — of the tomb, 
Whose tints — as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray; 
An eye — of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon — bright. 

And then — the sighs — he would suppress — 

Of fainting nature's feebleness; — 

I listened, but I could not hear; 

I called, for I was wild — with fear: — 

I called, and thought — I heard a sound, — 

I burst my chain — with one strong bound, 

And rushed to -him : I found him not, 

I — only — stirred — in this black spot, 

I — only — lived, — / — only — drew 

The accursed breath — of dungeon-dew, 

The last, — the sole, — the dearest link 

Between me — and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me — to my failing race 

Was broken — in this fatal place. 

What next befell me — then — and there 

I know not well, — I never knew; — 
First — came the loss of light — and air, 

And then — of darkness too. 
There were no stars, — no earth, — no time,— 
No check, — no change, — no good, — no crime, 
But silence, — and a stirless breath — 
Which neither was of life — nor death. 


A light — broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol — of a bird; 
It ceased, — and then — it came — again, 

The sweetest song — ear ever heard; 
And mine — was thankful — till my eyes 
Ban over — with the glad surprise; 
But then — by dull degrees — came back 
My senses — to their wonted track; 
I saw the dungeon walls — and floor 
Close slowly round me — as before ; 
I saw the glimmer — of the — sun, 
Creeping — as it before had done ; 
But through — the crevice — where it came — 
That bird — was perched — as fond — and tae, 

And tamer — than upon the tree, — 
A lovely bird — with azure wings, 
And song — that — said a thousand — things, 

And seemed to say them all — for — me ! 

I sometimes — deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul — come down to me ; 
But then — at last — away it flew, — 
And then — 't was mortal, — well — I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice — so doubly lone. 

A kind of change — came in my fate ; 
My keepers — grew compassionate. 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured — to sights of woe; 
But so — it was; — my broken chain 
"With links — unfastened — did remain ; 
And it was liberty — to stride 
Along my cell, from side to side, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves — without a sod. 

I made a, footing — in the wall, — 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one — and all 

Who loved me — in a human shape, 
And the whole earth — would — henceforth — be 
A wider prison unto me ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd icindows, and to bend — 
Once more upon the mountains high — 
The quiet — of a loving eye. 

I saw them, and they were the same, 

They — were not changed — like me — in frame; 


I saw their thousand years of snow — 
On high, — their wide long lake — below; 
And then — there was a little isle, 
Which — in my very face did smile, 
The only one — in view. 

The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seemed joyous, each — and all; 
The eagle — rode the rising blast, — 
Methought — he never flew so fast 
As then — to me — he seemed to fly; 
And then — new tears — came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled, — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness — of my dim abode 
Fell on me — as a heavy load; 
It was — as is a new-dug grave 
Closing o'er one — we sought to save. 

At last — men came — to set us free, 

I asked not why, and recked not where. 

It was — at length — the same — to me, 

Fettered — or fetterless — to be ; 
I learned to love despair. 

And thus, when they appeared — at last, 

And all my bonds — aside were cast, 

These heavy walls — to me — had grown 

A hermitage, — and all — my own! 

And half I felt — as they were come 

To tear me — from a second home ! 

"With spiders — I had friendship made, 
And watched them — in their sullen frade, — 
Had seen the mice — by moonlight play, 
And why should /—feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates — of one place, 
And I, the monarch — of each race, 
Had power to kill, — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet — we had learned to dwell ; 
My very chains — and I — grew friends, 
So much — a long communion — tends 
To make us — what we are : — Even / — 
Regained — my freedom — with a sigh. 


Of music what shall be said? Some friend and enthusiast says: "Why, it 
is sound and harmony that please the senses and stir up pleasant emotions ! " 
But, my friend, hear Lady Eastlake: "It is a strange thing, the subtle form 
and condition of music. When the composer has conceived it in his mind, 
the music itself is not there; when he has committed it to paper, it is still not 


there; when he has called together his orchestra and choristers from north and 
south, it is there — but gone again when they disperse. It has always, as it 
were, to put on mortality afresh. It is ever being born anew, but to die away, 
and leave only dead notes and dumb instruments behind." Is the exquisite 
presence, then, easily definable? We believe both music and poetry are 
spiritual essences which touch spiritual springs in our being, and that, though 
we feel and appreciate them, they are too ethereal for outward sense, and must 
forever be buried in the depths of emotion and sensation, only to be fully un- 
derstood when this mind bursts its material bonds, and reaches up into the 
world where poetry and music must be living, visible presences. With this 
belief, have we not the evidence of the better life constantly within us? 


"And the people of this place say that at certain seasons beautiful music is heard from 
the ocean." — Mavor's Voyages, 

Lonely — and wild — it rose, 
That strain of solemn music — from the sea, 
As though the bright air trembled — to disclose 
An ocean mystery. 

Again — a low, sweet tone, — 
(Fainting — in murmurs — on the listening day,) 
Just bade the excited thought — its presence own, — 

Then — died away. 

Once more — the gush of sound, — 
[Struggling — and swelling — from the heaving plain,) 
Thrilled a rich peal — triumphantly around, 

And. fled again. 

O boundless deep ! we know 
Thou hast strange wonders — in thy gloom concealed, 
Gems,— flashing gems, — from whose unearthly glow — 

Sunlight — is sealed. 

And an eternal spring — 
Showers her rich colors — with unsparing hand, 
Where coral trees — their graceful branches fling 

O'er golden sand. 

But tell, — O restless main! 
Who— are the dwellers — in thy world beneath, 
That thus — the watery realm — can not contain 

The joy — they breathe ? 

Emblem — of glorious might! 
Are thy wild children — like thyself arrayed, 
Strong — in immortal — and unchecked delight, 

Which can not fade ? 

Or — to mankind allied, 
Toiling with woe — and passion's fiery sting, 
Like their own homes, — where storms — or peace preside, 

As the winds bring? 


Alas, for human thought ! 
How does it flee existence, — worn — and old, 
To win companionship — with beings — wrought 

Of finer mold! 

'T is vain — the reckless waves 
Join with loud revel — the dim ages flown, 
But keep each secret — of their hidden caves 

Dark — and unknown. 


There are harps that complain to the presence of night, 

To the presence of night alone — 

In a near and unchangeable tone — 
Like winds full of sound that go whispering by, 
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky, 

And breathed out a blessing — and flown ! 

Yes ! harps that complain to the breezes of night, 

To the breezes of night alone ; 
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright 
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light, 

Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair 

And flourishing robe on the edge of the air ! 
Burning crimson and gold 
On the clouds that unfold, 
Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides 
On his right and his left ; — so the Thunderer rides 
"When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides, 

Boiling on and erect in a charioting throne ! 

Yes ! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, 

That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. 
There are hautboys and flutes too forever at play 
When the evening is near, and the sun is away, 

Breathing out the still hymn of delight. 
These strings by invisible fingers are played — 

By spirits unseen and unknown, 
But thick as the stars, all this music is made; 
And these flutes alone, 
In one sweet, dreamy tone, 
Are ever blown 
Forever and forever. 

The livelong night ye hear the sound, 

Like distant waters flowing round 

In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet 

With crowding tunes, like halls 

Where fountain-music falls 

And rival minstrels meet. 



In vocal music there is a union of music and language — the language of 
affection and thought; which includes the whole man. Poetry and music are 
sister arts; their relationship being one of heaven-like intimacy. The essence 
of poetry consists in fine perceptions and vivid expressions of that subtle and 
mysterious analogy that exists between the physical and moral world; and it 
derives its power from the correspondence of natural things with spiritual. 
Its effect is to elevate the thoughts and affections toward a higher state of 


When I hear the waters fretting, 

"When I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossoms falter down, I think, "Alas the day!" 

Once, with magical sweet singing, 

Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
That wakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 

Sweet as air, and all beguiling: 
And there hung a mist of blue-bells on the slope and down the dell: 

And we talked of joy and splendor 

That the years unborn would render, — 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well, 

Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 

April 's here and summer 's coming; 
Do n't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy. 

Think on us in alleys shady 

When you step a graceful lady ; 
For no fairer days have we to hope for, little girl and boy. 

"Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 

Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, O wind, and rock thy leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; 

When they wake, we '11 end the measure 

With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a ' Hey down derry, let 's be merry, little girl and boy.' " 

Oft as my lady sang for me 
The song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea, 
Of the grave on the rock and the cypress tree, 
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole, 
For 't was made of old sadness that lives in my soul. 

So still grew my heart at each tender word 
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred, 
And I hardly breathed, but only heard : 
Where was I ? —Not in the world of men, 
Until she awoke me with silence again. 



Like the smell of the vine in early bloom 
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume, 
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room ; 
Whether it came from the vine without, 
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt. 

Light shadows played on the pictured wall 
From the maples that fluttered outside the hall, 
And hindered the daylight, — yet oh ! not all ; 
Too little for that all the forest would be, — 
Such a sunbeam she was and is to me! 

"When my sense returned, as the song was o'er, 

I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once more;" 

But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore: 

Music enough in her look I found, 

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound. 


The Father spake! In grand reverberations 
Through space — rolled on the mighty music-tide, 

While to its low, majestic modulations 
The clouds of chaos — slowly swept aside. 

The Father spake ! A dream that had been lying, 
Hushed from eternity — in silence there, 

Heard the pure melody, — and low replying, 
Grew to that music — in the wondering air. 

Greio to that music; — slowly, grandly waking, 
Till, bathed in beauty, it became — a world! 

Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking, 

While glorious clouds — their wings — around it furled. 

Nor yet — has ceased that sound, — his love revealing, 
Though in response — a universe moves by! 

Throughout eternity — its echo pealing, 

World after world — awakes in glad reply ! 

And wheresoever in his rich creation 

Sweet music breathes, in wave, or earth, or soul, 

'T is but t\ie faint and/ar reverberation 

Of that great — time to which the planets — roll. 


Old men — young women — wed by way of nurses; 
Young men — old women — just — to fill — their purses; 
Nor young men — only ; for 't is my belief, 

(Nor do I think the metaphor — a bold one,) 
When folks — (in life) — turn over a new leaf, 

Why, — very few — would grumble at a gold one. 


A worthy knight, — (yclept — Sir Peter Pickle, 

By love — was made to look exceeding glumpy; 
The maid — whose charms — had power — his heart to tickle 

Was Miss Cordelia — Caroline — Crumpy! 

This said Sir Peter was,— (as you shall hear,) 

Although a knight, — as poor — as any poet; 
But handsome — as Apollo Belvidere, 

And vain — Sir Peter — seemed full well — to know it. 

No wonder j then, — th't Miss Cordelia — Crumpy 

Could not — [unmoved) hear such a lover sue; 
Sweet, — pathetic maiden, — -fat — and stumpy; 

Green-eyed, — red-haired, and — [turned) — of sixty-two ! 

But tell me, — {Muse,) — what charm it was — could tickle 
The once — invincible — Sir Peter Pickle? 
Was it her eyes th't, so attached — to one day, 
Looked— piously — seven — different ways — for Sunday ? 

Was it her hump, — th't had a camel — suited? 

Her left leg — bandy ? or her right — cfo^-footed ? 

Or nose, in shape — so like a liquor funnel ? 

Or mouth— whose width — might shame — the Hoosie Tunnel ? 

Was it — the beauties — of her face — combined, — 

A face, — (since similes — I have began on,) 
Not — like a face — th't I can call to mind, 

Except the one — beneath the rebel's cannon! 

No, — gentle friends ! although such beauties — might 
Have warmed the bosom — of an anchorite, — 
The charms — th't made our knight — all milk — and honey 
Was — that infallible specific — money ! 

Peter,— (whom want of brass — had made more brazen,) 
In moving terms — began his love — to blazon; 
Sigh — after sigh — in quick succession — rushes, — 

Nor — are the labors of his lungs — in vain; 
Her cheeks — soon crimson — with consenting blushes, — 

Red — as the chimney-^ot — just after rain! 

The license — bought, — he marries her — in haste, 

Brings home — his bride, — and gives his friends — a gay day; 

All his relations,— {wondering — at his taste,) 

Yowed — he had better had — " The ^oi^-faced lady!" 

Struck — with this monstrous heap — of woman-kind, 

The thought — of — (money) never crossed their mind. 

The dinner — o'er, — the ladies — and the bride — 

Retired, — and wine — and chat — went round jocosely ; 

Sir Peter's brother — took the knight aside, — 
And questioned him — about the matter — closely. 


"Confound it, (Peter!) how came you — to pitch 

On such an ugly, — squinting, — squally witch? 

A man — like you, (so handsome — and so knowing,) — 

Your wits, (my friend,) must surely — be a going ! 

Who — could have thought you — such a tasteless oaf, — 

To wed a lump — of odd-come — shorts and hits, — 

That Madam Nature, — (in her merry Jits,) 

Had jumbled — into something — like a. face! 

With skin — as black — as if she charcoal fed on, — 

Crooked, — and crusty — like an outside loaf ; 

A remnant of an — ourang-outang face, 

Eve's — ^rrand-mother — with the serpent's head on ! 

What spell— could — into such a hobble — throw you?" 

"Just — step up stairs, 1 ' — (says Peter,) "and I'll show you." 

Up stairs— they went. — " There — there 's her picture ! Say, 

Is it not like her, — Sir? Your judgment, — pray! 

"Like her, (Sir Peter!) take it not uncivil, — 

'T is like her, — and — as ugly — as — (the devil!) 

With, just her squinting leer ; — but, — (Peter,) what 

A very — handsome frame — it 's got ! 

So richly — gilt, — and so superbly — wrought!" 

"You re right," — (Sir Peter says,) "'t was the FRAME th't caught! 

I grant — my wife — is ugly, — squabby, — old, — 

But still — she pleases, — being set — in gold! 

Let others — for the picture — feel a flame ; 

I, — (my good brother,) married — for — the frame!" 


This — is a speech, — brief, — but full of inspiration — and opening the way to 
all victory. The mystery — of Napoleon's career — was this, — under all diffi- 
culties — and discouragements, — "press on!" It solves the problem — of all 
heroes; — it is the rule — by which to weigh — (rightly) all wonderful successes — 
and triumphal marches — to fortune and genius. It should be the motto of 
all, — old — and young, — high — and low, — -fortunate — and wwfortunate, — so called. 

"Press on!" Never despair; never be discouraged, — however stormy the 
heavens, — however dark the way; however great the difficulties — and repeated — 
the failures, — " press on ! " 

If fortune — has played fa Ise with thee — to-day, — do thou — play true — for 
thyself — to-morrow. If thy riches — have taken wings, — and left thee, do not 
weep thy life away; but be up — and doing, and retrieve the loss — by new ener- 
gies — and action. If an unfortunate bargain has deranged thy business, — do 
not fold thy arms, — and give up all — as lost; but stir thyself — and work the 
more vigorously. 

If those — whom thou hast trusted — have betrayed thee, — do not be dis- 
couraged, — do not idlyweej), — but "press on!" find others; or, what is better, — 
learn to live — within thyself. Let the foolishness — of yesterday — make thee 
vme — to-day. If thy affections — have been poured out — like water — in the 
desert, do not sit down, — and perish of thirst, but press on; a beautiful oasis is 


before thee, — and thou mayst reach — it if thou wilt. If another — has been false 
to thee, — do not thou increase the evil — by being false — to thyself. Do not 
say — the world hath lost its poetry — and beauty; 't is not so; and even if it be 
so, — make thine own poetry — and beauty — by a brave, — a true, — and, — (above 
all,) — a religious life. 

THE BIG SHOE. Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 

" There was an old woman 

Who lived in a shoe ; 
She had so many children 

She did n't know what to do. 
To some she gave broth, 

And to some she gave bread, 
And some she whipped soundly, 

And sent them to bed." 

Do you find out the likeness ? 

A portly old dame, — 
The mother of millions, — 

Brittania by name : 
And, — howe'er it may strike you 

In reading the song, — 
Not stinted in space 

For bestowing the throng, 
Since the sun can himself 

Hardly manage to go, 
In a day and a night 

From the heel to the toe. 

On the arch of the instep 

She builds up her throne, 
And with seas rolling under, 

She sits there — alone ; 
With her heel at the foot 

Of the Himmalehs planted, 
And her toe in the icebergs, 

Unchilled and undaunted. 

Yet though justly of all 

Her fine family proud, 
'T is no light undertaking 

To rule such a crowd ; 
Not to mention the trouble 

Of seeing them fed, — 
And dispensing v?\th. justice 

The broth — and the bread. 

Some will seize upon one, — 

Some are left with the other, — 
And so the whole household 

Gets into a pother. 
But the rigid old dame 

Has a summary way 
Of her own when she finds 

There is mischief to pay I 


She just takes up the — rod — 

As she lays down the spoon, 
And makes their rebellious backs 

Tingle right soon. 
Then she bids them, while yet 

The sore smarting they feel, 
To lie down, and go to sleep 

Under her heel! 

Only once was she posed, — 

When the little boy — Sam, — 
"Who had always before 

Been as meek as a lamb, 
Refused — to take tea 

As his mother had bid, 
And returned saucy answers 

Because he was — chid. 

Not content even then, 

He cut loose from the throne, 
And set about making 

A shoe of his own ; 
"Which suoceeded so well, 

And was filled up so fast, 
That the world in amazement 

Confessed at the — last, — 
Looking on at the work 

With a gasp and a stare,— 
That 't was hard to tell which 

Would be best of the pair. 

Side by side they are standing 

Together to-day; 
Side by side may they keep 

Their strong foothold for aye !— 
And beneath the broad sea, 

Whose blue depths intervene, 
May the finishing string 

Lie unbroken between I 




Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to 
be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within 
live miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, 
and endeavoring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of 
a sudden threw in his way what he might have set ttiere for a twelvemonth — 
and yet not found without it. 

Into the lane where he sat opened three or four garden gates, belonging 
to as many houses which, though detached from each other, were only sepa- 
rated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with 
trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of 
them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed 
upon the dust-heap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had 
disappeared, profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present 
undertaking, when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the 
lane to shake some bed-side carpets. 

Sam was very busy with his own thoughts, so that it is probable he would 
have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and 
remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gal- 
lantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one 
to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. 
Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no 
sooner remarked this circumstance than he hastil}- rose from the large stone, 
and advanced toward her. 

"My dear," said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, "you' 11 spile 
that wery pretty figure out o' all perportion if you shake them carpets by 
yourself. Let me help you." 

The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentle- 
man was so near, turned round as Sam spoke — no doubt (indeed she said so 
afterward) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger — when instead of 
speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was 
scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female 


servant he beheld the very features of his Valentine — the pretty housemaid 
from Mr. Nupkins's. 

"Wy, Mary my dear! " said Sam. 

" Lauk, Mr. Weller," said M*iry, "how you do frighten one!" 

Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say 
what reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, 
" Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller," and that his hat- had fallen off a few moments 
before — from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one 
kiss, or more, had passed between the parties. 

"Why, how did you come here?" said Mary, when the conversation, to 
which this interruption had been offered, was resumed. 

"C course I came to look arter you, my darlin," replied Mr. Weller; for 
once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity. 

"And how did you know I was here?" inquired Mary. "Who could have 
told you that I took another service at Ipswich, — and that they afterward 
moved all the way here? Who could have told you that, Mr. Weller? " 

"Ah, to be sure," said Sam, with a cunning look, "that's the pint. Who 
could ha' told me?" 

" It was n't Mr. Muzzle, was it? " inquired Mary. 

" Oh, no," replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, " it war n't him." 

"It must have been the cook," said Mary. 

" O' course it must," said Sam. 

"Well, I never heard the like of that?" exclaimed Mary. 

"No more did I," said Sam. "But Mary, my dear — " here Sam's manners 
grew extremely affectionate — " Mary, my dear, I 've got another affair in hand 
as is wery pressin'. There 's one o' my governor's friends — Mr. Winkle — you 
remember him." 

"Him in the green coat?" said Mary. "Oh, yes, I remember him." 

"Well," said Sam, "he's in a horrid state o' love; reg'larly comfoozled, 
and done over vith it." 

" Lor ! " interposed Mary. 

"Yes," said Sam; "but that's nothin', if we could only find the young 
'ooraan " — and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty 
of Mary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw 
her, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle's present predicament. 

"Well," said Mary, "I never did! " 

"O' course not," said Sam, "and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; 
and here am I a walkin' about like the wanderin' Jew — a sportin' character 
you have perhaps heerd on, Mary, my dear, as wos always doin' a match agin' 
time, and never vent to sleep — looking arter this Miss Arabella Allen." 

"Miss who?" said Mary, in great astonishment. 

"Miss Arabella Allen," said Sam. 

" Goodness gracious ! " said Mary, pointing to the garden-door which the 
sulky groom had locked after him. "Why it 's that very house ; she 's been 
living there these six weeks. Their upper housemaid, which is lady's maid 
too, told me all about it over the wash-house palins before the family was out 
of bed, one mornin'." 

"Wot, the wery next door to you?" said Sam. 

" The very next," replied Mary. 


Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome at receiving this intelligence that he 
found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support, and 
divers little love passages had passed between them before he was sufficiently 
collected to return to the subject. 

"Veil," said Sam at length, " if this do n't beat cock-fightin', nothin' never 
vill, as the Lord Mayor said ven the chief secretary o' state proposed his 
missis's health arter dinner. That wery next house ! Wy, I 've got a message 
to her as I've been a tryin' all day to deliver." 

"AK," said Mary; "but you can 't deliver it now, because she only walks in 
the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she never goes 
out without the old lady." 

Sam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan 
of operations : that he should return just at dusk — the time at which Arabella 
invariably took her walk — and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the 
house to which she belonged, contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the 
overhanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him 
from observation ; there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an in- 
terview on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour. 
Having made this arrangement with great dispatch, he assisted Mary in the 
long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets. 

It is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little pieces of 
carpet — at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding 
is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties 
are kept the carpet's length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well 
be devised, but when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets 
gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to 
an eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second if the carpet be 
long enough, it becomes dangerous. We do not know to a nicety how many 
pieces of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as 
many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid. 

Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until 
it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. 
Having been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from 
that lady sundry admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam 
mounted into the pear-tree to wait until Arabella should come into sight. 

He waited so long without this anxiously expected event occurring that he 
began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light foot- 
steps upon the gravel, and immediately afterward beheld Arabella walking 
pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam 
began, by way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundry diabolical 
noises, similar to those which would probably be natural to a person who had 
been afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore-throat, croup, and 
hooping-cough from his earliest infancy. 

Upon this the young lady cast a hurried glance toward the spot from 
whence the dreadful sounds proceeded ; and her previous alarm being not at 
all diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most 
certainly have decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately 
deprived her of the power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a 
garden-seat which happened by good luck to be near at hand. 


" She 's a goin off," soliloquized Sam, in great perplexity. "Wot a thing it 
is. as these here young ereeturs will go a faintin' avay just ven they oughtn't 
to. Here, young "oonian, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don't. 

Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle's name, or the coolness of the 
open air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller's voice, that revived Arabella, 
matters not. She raised her head, and languidly inquired — "Who 's that, and 
what do you want?" 

" Hush," said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in 
as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, " only me, Miss, only me." 

" Mr. Pickwick's servant! " said Arabella, earnestly. 

" The wery same, Miss," replied Sam. " Here 's Mr. Vinkle reg'larly sewed 
up with desperation, Miss." 

"Ah!" said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall. 

"Ah, indeed," said Sam. "Ve thought ve should ha' been obliged to 
straight-veskit him last night ; he 's been a ravin' all day, and he says if he 
can 't see you afore to-morrow night 's over, he vishes he may be — somethin' 
unpleasanted if he do n't drown hisself." 

" Oh, no, no, Mr. Weller," said Arabella, clasping her hands. 

" That 's wot he says, Miss," replied Sam, coolly. " He 's a man of his 
word, and it 's my opinion he '11 do it, Miss. He 's heerd about you from the 
Sawbones in barnacles." 

" From my brother ! " said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam's 

"I don't rightly know which is your brother," replied Sam. "Is it the 
dirtiest vun o' the two?" 

" Yes, yes, Mr. Weller," returned Arabella, " go on. Make haste, pray." 

"Yell, Miss," said Sam, "he's heerd all about it from him; and it 's the 
gov'nor's opinion that if you do n't see him wery quick, the Sawbones as 
we 've been a speakin' on 'ull get as much extra lead in his head as '11 rayther 
damage the dewelopment o' the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artevards." 

" Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels ! " exclaimed 

" It 's the suspicion of a priory 'tachment as is the cause of it all," replied 
Sam. "You 'd better see him, Miss." 

"But how? — where?" cried Arabella. "I dare not leave the house. alone. 
My brother is so unkind, so unreasonable. I know how strange my talking 
thus to you must appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy — " and 
here poor Arabella wept so bitterly that Sam grew chivalrous. 

" It may seem wery strange talkin' to me about these here affairs, Miss," 
said Sam, with great vehemence; "but all I can say is, that I'm not only 
ready, but villin' to do anythin' as '11 make matters agreeable; and if chuckin' 
either o' them Sawbones out o' winder 'ull do it, I 'm the man." As Sam 
Weller said this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the imminent hazard of falling 
off the wall in so doing, to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately. 

Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely 
declined (most unaccountably, as Sam thought) to avail herself of them. For 
some time she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had 
so pathetically requested ; but at length, when the conversation threatened to 
be interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave 


him to understand, with many professions of gratitude, that it was barely- 
possible she might be in the garden an hour later next evening. Sam under- 
stood this perfectly well, and Arabella, bestowing upon him one of her sweetest 
smiles, tripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great 
admiration of her charms, both personal and mental. 

Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a 
few moments to his own particular business in the same department, Mr. 
"Weller then made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged 
absence had occasioned much speculation and some alarm. 

"We must be careful," said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to 
Sam's tale, " not for our own sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must 
be very cautious." 

" We!" said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis. 

Mr. Pickwick's momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark 
subsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence as he replied, 

" We, sir ! I shall accompany you." 

"You !" said Mr. Winkle. 

"I" replied Mr. Pickwick mildly. "In affording you this interview the 
young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent step. If 
I am present at the meeting — a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the 
father of both parties — the voice of calumny can never be raised against her 

Mr. Pickwick's eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight, 
as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched at this little trait of his delicate 
respect for the young protege of his friend, and took his hand with a feeling of 
regard akin to veneration. 

"You shall go," said Mr. Winkle. 

"I will," said Mr. Pickwick. "Sam, have my great-coat and shawl ready, 
and order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening rather earlier 
than is absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time." 

Mr. Weller touched his hat as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to 
make all needful preparations for the expedition. 

The coach was punctual to the time appointed, and Mr. Weller, after duly 
installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by 
the driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile 
from the place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return 
proceeded the remaining distance on foot. 

It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles 
and various other indications of great self-satisfaction, produced from one of 
his coat-pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself 
for the occasion, and the great mechanical beauty of which he proceeded to 
explain to Mr. Winkle as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the 
few stragglers they met. 

" I should have been the better for something of this kind in my last garden 
expedition at night, eh, Sam ? " said Mr. Pickwick, looking good-humoredly 
round at his follower, who was trudging behind. 

" Wery nice things if they're managed properly, sir," replied Mr. Weller; 
"but if you do n't want to be seen I think they 're more useful arter the can- 
dle 's gone out than ven it 's alight?" 


Mr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam's remark, for he put the lantern into 
his pocket again, and they walked on in silence. 

" Down here, sir," said Sam. " Let me lead the vay. This is the lane, sir." 

Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought 
out the lantern once or twice as they groped their way along, and threw a very 
brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a foot in diameter. It was 
very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding 
objects rather darker than before. 

At length they arrived at the large stone, and here Sam recommended his 
master and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred and ascer- 
tained whether Mary was yet in waiting. 

After an absence of five or ten minutes Sam returned to say that the gate 
was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick 
and Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here every body said 
u Hush ! " a good many times; and that being done no one seemed to have any 
very distinct apprehension of what was to be done next. 

" Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary ? " inquired Mr. Winkle, much 

" I do n't know, sir," replied the pretty housemaid. " The best thing to be 
done, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and per? 
haps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that mobody comes up the 
lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what ! s 

"That 'ere blessed lantern 'ill be the death on us all," exclaimed Sam, 
peevishly. " Take care what you 're a doin' on, sir, you're a sendin' a blaze o' 
light right into the back parlor vinder." 

"Dear me!" said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, "I did'nt mean to 
do that." 

"Now it's in the next house, sir," remonstrated Sam. 

" Bless my heart! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again. 

"Now it's in the stable, and they'll think the place is afire," said Sam. 
"Shut it up, sir, can 't you? " 

" It 's the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with in all my life ! " 
exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so uninten- 
tionally produced. " I never saw such a powerful reflector." 

"It'll be vun too powerful for us if you keep blazin' avay in that manner, 
sir," replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed 
to close the slide. "There's the young lady's footsteps. Now, Mr. Yinkle, 
sir, up vith you." 

"Stop, stop! " said Mr. Pickwick, "I must speak to her first. Help me up, 

" Gently, sir," said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a 
platform of his back. "Step a top o' that 'ere flower-pot, sir. Now, then, up 
vith you." 

" I 'm afraid I shall hurt you, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. 

" Never mind me, sir," replied Sam. " Lend him a hand, Mr. Vinkle, sir. 
Steady, sir, steady ; that 's the time o' day." 

As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a gentle- 
man of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam's back; and Sam 


gently raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the 
wall, while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these 
means to bring his spectacles just above the level of the coping. 

"My dear," said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight 
of Arabella on the other side, "don't be frightened, my dear, 'tis only me." 

"Oh, pray go away, Mr. Pickwick," said Arabella. "Tell them all to go 
away, I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear, Mr. Pickwick, do n't stop 
there ; you '11 fall down and kill yourself, I know you will." 

"Now, pray don't alarm yourself, my dear," said Mr. Pickwick, soothingly. 
" There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam," said Mr. 
Pickwick, looking down. 

" All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller. " Do n't be longer than you can con- 
weniently help, sir. You're rayther heavy." 

" Only another moment, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick. 

" I merely wished you to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my 
young friend to see you in this clandestine way if the situation in which you 
are placed had left him any alternative; and lest the impropriety of this step 
should cause you any uneasiness, my love, it may be a satisfaction to you to 
know that I am present; that's all, my dear." 

" Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness 
and consideration," replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. 
She would probably have said much more had not Mr. Pickwick's head disap- 
peared with great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam's shoulder, 
which brought him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant, 
however, and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran 
out into the lane to keep watch with all the courage and ardor of a youth. 
Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, 
merely pausing to request Sam to be careful of his master. 

" I '11 take care on him, sir," replied Sam. " Leave him to me." 

"Where is he? What's he doing, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle. 

" Bless his old gaiters," rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door, " he 's 
a keepin' guard in the lane vith that 'ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy 
Pawkes. I never see such a fine creetur in my days. Bless'd if I do n't think 
his heart must ha' been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least! " 

Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had 
dropped from the wall, thrown himself at Arabella's feet, and by this time was 
pleading the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. 
Pickwick himself. 

While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of 
scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off, writing 
a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his labors 
with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by his side. 
In the agonies of composition the elderly gentleman looked sometimes at the 
carpet, sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when neither 
carpet, ceiling, nor wall afforded the requisite degree of inspiration he looked 
out of the window. 

In one of these pauses of invention the scientific gentleman was gazing 
abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised 
by observing a most brilliant light glide through the air a short distance above 


the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the 
phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times; at last the 
scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural 
causes these appearances were to be assigned. 

They were not meteors ; they were too low. They were not glow-worms ; 
they were too high. They were not will-o'-the-wisps; they were not fire-flies; 
they were not fire-works. "What could they be? Some extraordinary and 
wonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before; 
something which it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he 
should immortalize his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full 
of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized his pen again and committed to 
paper sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, 
minute, and precise second at which they were visible; all of which were to 
form the data of a voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, 
which should astonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in 
any part of the civilized globe. 

He drew himself back in his easy-chair, wrapt in contemplations of his 
future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before; 
dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side, and 
moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves. 

The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and 
astonish, so he rang the bell for his servant. 

"Pruffle," said the scientific gentleman, "there is something very extraor- 
dinary in the air to-night. Did you see that?" said the . scientific gentleman, 
pointing out of the window as the light again became visible. 

" Yes, I did, sir." 

"What do you think of it, Pruffle ? " 

"Think of it, sir?" 

"Yes. You have been bred up in the country. What should you say was 
the cause of those lights now?" 

The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle's reply that he could 
assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated. 

" I should say it was thieves, sir," said Pruffle at length. 

"You're a fool, and may go down stairs," said the scientific gentle- 

"Thank you, sir," said Pruffle. And down he went. 

But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious 
treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the 
case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its 
birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined 
to investigate the matter to the very bottom. 

Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, 
Mr. Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false 
alarm that somebody was coming that way, occasionally drawing back the 
slide of the dark lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no 
sooner given than Mr. Winkle scrambled back over the wall and Arabella 
ran into the house ; the garden gate was shut, and the three adventurers were 
making the best of their way down the lane, when they were startled by the 
scientific gentleman unlocking his garden gate. 


u Hold hard," whispered Sara, who was of course first of the party. " Show 
a light for just vun second, sir." 

Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam seeing a man's head peeping 
out very cautiously, within half a yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with 
his clenched fist, which knocked it with a hollow sound against the gate. 
Having performed this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller 
caught Mr. Pickwick up on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane 
at a pace which, considering the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing. 

" Have you got your vind back agin, sir ? " inquired Sam, when they had 
reached the end. 

" Quite — quite now," replied Mr. Pickwick. 

"Then come along, sir," said Sam, setting his master on his feet again. 
" Come between us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you 're vinnin a cup, 
sir. Now for it." 

Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs, and it 
may be confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the 
ground in a better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable 

The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the 
driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr. 
Pickwick had recovered his breath. 

" In vith you at once, sir," said Sam, as he helped his master out. " Do n't 
stop a second in the street arter that 'ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir," 
continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended. "Hope there 
war n't a priory 'tachment, sir." 

Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand and whispered in his 
ear, "It's all right, Sam; quite right;" upon which Mr. Weller struck three 
distinct blows upon his nose in token of intelligence; smiled, winked, and 
proceeded to put the steps up with a countenance expressive of lively satisfac- 
tion. As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated in a masterly treatise 
that these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity, and clearly proved 
the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put 
his head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for 
a full quarter of an hour afterward; which demonstration delighted all the 
scientific associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light 
of science ever afterward. 


I now approach an event in my life so indelible, so awful, so bound by an 
infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it in these pages, that from the 
beginning of my narrative I have seen it growing larger and larger as I 
advanced, like a great tower in a plain, and throwing its fore-cast shadow even 
on the incidents of my childish days. 

For years after it occurred I dreamed of it often. I have started up 
so vividly impressed by it, that its fury has yet seemed raging in my quiet 
room, in the still night. I dream of it sometimes, though at lengthened and 
uncertain intervals, to this hour. I have an association between it and a 
stormy wind, or the lightest mention of a sea-shore, as strong as any of which 
my mind is conscious. As plainly as I behold what happened I will try 


to write it down. I do not recall it, but see it done; for it happens again 
before me. 

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emigrant-ship, my good 
old nurse (almost broken-hearted for me, when we first met) came up to 
London. I was constantly with her and her brother and the Micawbers 
(they being very much together) ; but Emily I never saw. 

One evening when the time was close at hand I was alone with Peggotty 
and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. She described to us how 
tenderly he had taken leave of her, and how manfully and quietly he had 
borne himself. Most of all, of late, when she believed he was most tried. It 
was a subject of which the affectionate creature never tired; and our interest 
in hearing the many examples which she, who was so much with him, had to 
relate was equal to hers in relating them. 

My aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cottages at Highgate; 
I intending to go abroad, and she to return to her house at Dover. We had 
a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. As I walked home to it, after this 
evening's conversation, reflecting on what had passed between Ham and 
myself when I was last at Yarmouth, I wavered in the original purpose I 
had formed, of leaving a letter for Emily when I should take leave of her 
uncle on board the ship, and thought it would be better to write to her now. 
She might desire, I thought, after receiving my communication, to send some 
parting word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give her the oppor- 

I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed, and wrote to her. 
I told her that I had seen him, and that he had requested me to tell her what 
I have already written in its place in these sheets. I faithfully repeated it. 
I had no need to enlarge upon it,' if I had had the right. Its deep fidelity 
and goodness were not to be adorned by me or any man. I left it out, to be 
sent round in the morning ; with a line to Mr. Peggotty, requesting him to 
give it to her; and went to bed at daybreak. 

I was weaker than I knew then ; and, not falling asleep until the sun was 
up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I was roused by the silent presence 
of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my sleep, as I suppose we all do feel 
such things. 

" Trot, my dear," she said, when I opened my eyes, " I could n't make up 
my mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come up?" I replied 
yes, and he soon appeared. 

"Mas'r Davy," he said, when we had shaken hands, "I giv Em'ly your 
letter, sir, and she writ this heer; and begged of me fur to ask you to read it, 
and if you see no hurt in 't, to be so kind as to take charge on 't." 

"Have you read it?" said I. He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and 
read as follows: 

" I have got your message. Oh, what can I write to thank you for your 
good and blessed kindness to me! 

" I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them till I die. 
They are sharp thorns, but they are such comfort. I have prayed over them, 
oh, I have prayed so much. "When I find what you are, and what uncle is, I 
think what God must be, and can cry to him. 

"Good-bye forever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye forever in this 


world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I may wake a child and come to 
you. All thanks and blessings. Farewell, evermore!" 

This, blotted with tears, was the letter. 

" May I tell her as you doe n't see no hurt in 't, and as you'll be so kind as 
to take charge on ; t, Mas'r Davy ? " said Mr. Peggotty, when I had read it. 

'• Unquestionably," said I; "but I am thinking — " 

"Yes, Mas'r Davy?" 

"I am thinking," said I, "that I'll go down again to Yarmouth. There's 
time, and to spare, for me to' go and come back before the ship sails. My mind 
is constantly running on him, in his solitude; to put this letter of her writing 
in his hand at this time, and to enable you to tell her, in the moment of part- 
ing, that he has got it, will be a kindness to both of them. I solemnly accepted 
his commission, dear, good fellow, and can not discharge it too completely. 
The journey is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall be better in motion. 
I'll go down to-night." 

Though he anxiously endeavored to dissuade me, I saw that he was of my 
mind; and this, if I had required to be confirmed in my intention, would have 
had the effect. He went round to the coach-office, at my request, and took the 
box-seat for me on the mail. In the evening I started by that conveyance 
down the road I had traversed under so many vicissitudes. 

" Do n't you think that," I asked the coachman, in the first stage out of 
London, " a very remarkable sky ? I do n't remember to have seen one like it." 

"Nor I — not one equal to it," he replied. "That's wind, sir. There'll be 
mischief done at sea, I. expect, before long." 

It was a murky confusion — here and there blotted with a color like the color 
of the smoke from damp fuel — of flying clouds, tossed up into most remarkable 
heaps, suggesting greater heights in the clouds than there were depths below 
them to the bottom of the deepest hollows in the earth, through which the 
wild moon seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the 
laws of nature, she had lost her way and were frightened. There had been a 
wind all day, and it was rising then with an extraordinary great sound. In 
another hour it had much increased, and the sky was more overcast, and it 
blew hard. But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and densely 
overspreading the whole sky, then very dark, it came on to blow harder and 
harder. It still increased, until our horses could scarcely face the wind. Many 
times, in the dark part of the night (it was then late in September, when the 
nights were not short), the leaders turned about or came to a dead stop ; and 
we were often in serious apprehension that the coach w-ould be blown over. 
Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this storm like showers of steel; and at 
those times, when there was any shelter of trees or lee walls to be got, we 
were fain to stop, in a sheer impossibility of continuing the struggle. 

When the day broke it blew harder and harder. I had been in Yarmouth 
when the seamen said it blew great guns, but I had never known the like of 
this, or anything approaching to it. We came to Norwich — very late, having 
had to fight every inch of ground since we were ten miles out of London — and 
found a cluster of people in the market-place, who had risen from their beds in 
the night, fearful of falling chimneys. Some of these, congregating about the 
inn-yard while we changed horses, told us of great sheets of lead having been 
ripped off a high church-tower and flung into a by-street, which they then 



blocked up. Others had to tell of country people coming in from neighboring 
villages, who had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and whole ricks 
scattered about the road? and fields. Still there was no abatement in the storm, 
but it blew harder. 

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from which this mighty 
wind was blowing dead on shore, its force became more and more terrific. 
Long before we saw the sea its spray was on our lips, and showered salt rain 
upon us. The water was out over miles and miles of the flat country adjacent 
to Yarmouth ; and every sheet and puddle lashed its banks, and had its stress 
of little breakers setting heavily toward us. When we came within sight of 
the sea the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, 
were like glimpses of another shore, with towers and buildings. "When at last 
we got into the town the people came out to their doors all aslant and with 
streaming hair, making a wonder of the mail that had come through such 
a night. 

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea; staggering along 
the street, which was strewn with sand and seaweed and with flying blotches 
of sea-foam; afraid of falling slates and tiles; and holding by people I met at 
angry corners. Coming near the beach I saw not only the boatmen but half 
the people of the town lurking behind buildings, some now and then braving 
the fury of the storm to look away to sea, and blown sheer out of their course 
in trying to get zigzag back. 

Joining these groups I found bewailing women whose husbands were away 
in herring or oyster boats, which there was too much reason to think might 
have foundered before they could run in anywhere for safety. Grizzled old 
sailors were among the people, shaking their heads as they looked from w T ater to 
sky, and muttering to one another; ship-owners excited and uneasy; children 
huddling together, and peering into older faces ; even stout mariners, disturbed 
and anxious, leveling their glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, as if 
they were surveying an enemy. 

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find suflicient pause to look at it, in 
the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful 
noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls came rolling in, and at their 
highest tumbled into surf, they looked as if the least would engulf the town. 
As the receding wave swept back with a hoarse roar it seemed to scoop out 
deep caves in the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine the earth. "When 
some white-headed billows thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces 
before they reached the land, every fragment of the late whole seemed possessed 
by the full might of its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the composition of 
another monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys 
were lifted up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a 
booming sound ; every shape tumultously rolled on, as soon as made, to change 
its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away; the ideal shore 
on the horizon, with its towers and buildings, rose and fell; the clouds flew 
fast and thick; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of all nature. 

Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable wind — for it is 
still remembered down there as the greatest ever known to blow upon that 
coast — had brought together, I made my way to his house. It was shut; and 
as no one answered to my knocking I went by back-ways and by-lanes to the 


yard where he worked. I learned there that he had gone to Lowestoft to meet 
some sudden exigency of ship-repairing in which his skill was required, hut 
that he would be back to-morrow morning in good time. 

I went back to the inn, and when I had washed and dressed, and tried to 
sleep, hut in vain, it was five o'clock in the afternoon. I had not sat five 
minutes by the coffee-room fire when the waiter, coming to stir it as an excuse 
for talking, told me that two colliers had gone down with all hands, a few 
miles away, and that some other ships had been seen laboring hard in the 
Koads, and trying, in great distress, to keep off-shore. Mercy on them and on 
all poor sailors, said he, if we had another night like the last ! 

I was very much depressed in spirits ; very solitary ; and felt an uneasiness 
in Ham's not being there disproportionate to the occasion. I was seriously 
affected, without knowing how much, by late events, and my long exposure to 
the fierce wind had confused me. There was that jumble in my thoughts and 
recollections that I had lost the clear arrangement of time and distance. Thus, 
if I had gone out into the town, I should not have been surprised, I think, to 
encounter some one who I knew must be then in London. So to speak, there 
was in these respects a curious inattention in my mind. Yet it was busy too 
with all the remembrances the place naturally awakened, and they were par- 
ticularly distinct and vivid. In this state, the waiter's dismal intelligence 
about the ships immediately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, 
with my uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an apprehension 
of his returning from Lowestoft by sea and being lost. This grew so strong 
with me that I resolved to go back to the yard before I took my dinner and ask 
the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return by sea at all likely ? 
If he gave me the least reason to think so, I would go over to Lowestoft and 
prevent it by bringing him with me. 

I hastily ordered my dinner and went back to the yard. I was none too 
soon, for the boat-builder, with a lantern in his hand, was locking the yard- 
gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the question, and said there was no 
fear; no man in his senses, or out of them, would put off in such a gale of 
wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born to seafaring. 

So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed of doing 
what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to the inn. If such a 
wind could rise I think 'it was rising. The howl and roar, the rattling of the 
doors and windows, the rumbling in the chimneys, the apparent rocking of the 
very house that sheltered me, and the prodigious tumult of the sea, were more 
fearful than in the morning. But there was now a great darkness besides, and 
that invested the storm with new terrors, real and fanciful. 

I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue steadfast to any 
thing. Something within me, faintly answering to the storm without, tossed 
up the depths of my memory, and made a tumult in them. Yet in all the 
hurry of my thoughts — wild running with the thundering sea — the storm and 
my uneasiness regarding Ham were always in the foreground. 

My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh myself with 
a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull slumber before the fire, 
without losing my consciousness either of the uproar out of doors or of the 
place in which I was. Both became overshadowed by a new and indefinable 
horror, and when I awoke — or rather when I shook off the lethargy that 


bound me in my chair — my whole frame thrilled with objectless and unintelli- 
gible fear. 

I walked to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened to the awful 
noises ; looked at faces, scenes, and figures in the fire. At length the steady 
ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall tormented me to that degree 
that I resolved to go to bed. 

It was re-assuring, on such a night, to be told that some of the inn-servants 
had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went to bed exceedingly weary 
and heavy, but on my lying down all such sensations vanished as if by magic, 
and I was broad awake, with every sense refined. 

For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water; imagining now that 
I heard shrieks out at sea ; now, that I distinctly heard the firing of signal 
guns; and now, the fall of houses in the town. I got up several times and 
looked out, but could see nothing except the reflection in the window-panes of 
the faint candle I had left burning, and of my own haggard face looking in at 
me from the black void. 

At length my restlessness attained to such a pitch that I hurried on my 
clothes and went down stairs. I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once 
I opened the yard-gate, and looked into the empty street. The sand, the sea- 
weed, and the flakes of foam were driving by ; and I was obliged to call for as- 
sistance before I could shut the gate again, and make it fast against the wind. 

There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber when I at length returned 
to it ; but I was tired now, and getting into bed again, fell — off a tower and 
down a precipice — into the depths of sleep. I have an impression that for a 
long time, though I dreamed of being elsewhere and in a variety of scenes, it 
was always blowing in my dream. At length I lost that feeble hold upon 
reality, and was engaged with two dear friends, but who they were I do n't 
know, at the siege of some town in a roar of cannonading. 

The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant that I could not hear 
something I much desired to hear, until I made a great exertion and awoke. 
It was broad day — eight or nine o'clock; the storm raging, in lieu of the 
batteries ; and some one knocking and calling at my door. 

,: What is the matter? " I cried. 

"A wreck ! Close by ! " 

I sprang out of bed, and asked what wreck? 

"A schooner from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. Make 
haste, sir, if you want to see her ! It 's thought, down on the beach, she '11 go 
to pieces every moment." 

The excited voice went clamoring along the staircase; and I wrapped 
myself in my clothes as quickly as I could and ran into the street. 

Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one direction, to 
the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many, and soon came 
facing the wild sea. 

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not more sensibly 
than if the cannonading I had dreamed of had been diminished by the 
silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea, having upon 
it the additional agitation of the whole night, was infinitely more terrific than 
when I had seen it last. Every appearance it had then presented bore the 
expression of being swelled; and the height to which the breakers rose, and, 


looking over one another, bore one another down, and rolled in, in intermin- 
able hosts, was most appalling. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves, and in the 
crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand 
against the weather, I was so confused that I looked out to sea for the wreck, 
and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed 
boatman, standing next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow on it, 
pointing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it, 
close in upon us ! 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay over 
the side, entangled in a maze of sale and rigging ; and all that ruin, as the 
ship rolled and beat — which she did without a moment's pause, and with a 
violence quite inconceivable — beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some 
efforts were even then being made to cut this portion of the wreck away; for, 
as the ship, which was broadside on, turned toward us in her rolling, I plainly 
descried her people at work with axes, especially one active figure with long 
curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which was audible 
even above the wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment : the sea, 
sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, 
casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge. 

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and a wild 
confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, 
the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted in-and struck again. 
I understood him to add that she was parting amidships, and I could readily 
suppose so, for the rolling and beating were too tremendous for any human 
work to suffer long. As he spoke there was another great cry of pity from 
the beach; four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the 
rigging of the remaining mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curl- 
ing hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like a des- 
perate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as 
she turned on her beam-ends toward the shore, now nothing but her keel as she 
sprung wildly over and turned toward the sea, the bell rang; and its sound, 
the knell of those unhappy men, was borne toward us on the wind. Again 
we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony on shore 
increased. Men groaned, and clasped their hands ; women shrieked, and 
turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach, 
crying for help where no help could be. I found myself one of these, franti- 
cally imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew not to let those two lost 
creatures perish before our eyes. 

They were making out to me, in an agitated way — I do n't know how, for 
the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to understand — that the 
life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and could do nothing; and 
that as no man would be so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope 
and establish a communication with the shore, there was nothing left to try; 
when I noticed that some new sensation moved the people on the beach, and 
saw them part, and Ham come breaking through them to the front. 

I ran to him — as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. But, dis- 
tracted though I was by a sight so new to me and terrible, the determination 


in his face, and his look out to sea— exactly the same look as I remembered in 
connection with the morning after Emily's flight— awoke me to a knowledge 
of his danger. I held him hack with both arms; and implored the men with 
whom I had been speaking not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let 
him stir from off that sand! 

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck we saw the cruel 
sail with blow on blow, beat off the lowest of the two men, and fly up in 
triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the calmly 
desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the people present, I 
might as hopefully have entreated the wind. " Mas'r Davy," he said, cheerily 
grasping me by both hands, "if my time is come, 'tis come. If 'tan't, I'll 
bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all! Mates, make me ready ! I'm 
a going off ! " 

I was swept aw r ay, but not unkindly, to some distance, where the people 
around me made me stay; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was bent 
on going, with help or without, and that I should endanger the precautions for 
his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I don't know what I 
answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw hurry on the beach, and men 
running with ropes from a capstan that was there, and penetrating into a 
circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw him standing alone, in 
a seaman's frock and trowsers; a rope in his hand, or slung to his wrist; 
another round his body; and several of the best men holding, at a little 
distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack upon the shore, at 
his feet. 

The wreck, even to my unpracticed eye, was breaking up. I saw that she 
was parting in the middle, and that the life of the solitary man upon the mast 
hung by a thread. Still he clung to it. He had a singular red cap on, — not 
like a sailor's cap, but of a finer color; and as the few yielding planks between 
him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his anticipated death-knell rung, 
he was seen by all of us to wave it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was 
going distracted, when his action brought an old remembrance to my mind 
of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended breath 
behind him and the storm before, until there was a great retiring wave, when, 
with a backward glance at those who held the rope which was made fast round 
his body, he dashed in after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the water • 
rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then 
drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; but he took 
no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some directions for 
leaving him m jre free — or so I judged from the motion of his arm — and was 
gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling with the 
valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in toward the shore, borne on 
toward the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing, but 
the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length he neared 
the wreck. He was so near that with one more of his vigorous strokes he 
would be clinging to it, — when a high, green, vast hill-side of water, moving 


on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a 
mighty bound, and the ship was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had been 
broken, in running to the spot where they were hauling in. Consternation 
was in every face. They drew him to my very feet — insensible — dead. He 
was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I remained 
near him, busy, while every means of restoration were tried; but he had been 
beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled forever. 

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a 
fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever 
since, whispered my name at the door. 

" Sir," said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which, with 
his trembling lips, was ashy pale, "will you - come over yonder?" 

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look. I 
asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support me: 
"Has a body come ashore?" He said, "Yes." "Do 1 know it?" I asked 
then. He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on that part where she and I had looked 
for shells, two children — on that part of it where some lighter fragments of 
the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by the wind — among 
the ruins of the home he had wronged — I saw him lying with his head upon 
his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school. 

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together in that 
hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour — no need to have said, 
"Think of me at my best! " I had done that ever; and could I change now, 
looking on this sight ! 

They brought a hand-bier and laid him on it, and covered him with a flag, 
and took him up and bore him on toward the houses. All the men who 
carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry 
and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the midst of all 
the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was already. 

But when they sat the bier down on the threshold they looked at one 
another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were 
not right to lay him down in the same quiet room. 

The following exercise must be carefully studied with regard to 
the various passions exhibited. It is not to be acted, but presented : 


The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step up stairs. On her 
return she brought a message to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid 
and could not come down ; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, 
she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood before her. 

She was in his room ; not in her otvn. I felt of course that she had taken 
to occupy it in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens of his old 
sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded, remained there, 
just as he had left them, for the same reason. She murmured, however, even 
in her reception of me, that she was out of her own chamber because its aspect 


was unsuitod to her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least 
suspicion of the truth. 

At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of her dark 
eyes resting on me I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil tidings. The scar 
sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair 
to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me 
with a piercing gaze that never faltered, never shrunk. 

M I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir," said Mrs. Steerforth. 

" I am unhappily a widower," said I. 

"You are very young to know so great a loss," she replied. " I am grieved 
to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good to you." 

" I hope Time," said I, looking at her, " will be good to all of us. Dear 
Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that in our heaviest misfortunes." 

The earnestness of my manner and the tears in my eyes alarmed her. 
The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop and change. 

I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it trembled. 
She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then, addressing 
me, she said, with enforced calmness : 

*' My son is ill." 

"Very ill." 

"You have seen him ? " 

" I have." 

"Are you reconciled? " 

1 could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head 
toward the spot where Eosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and in 
that moment I said, by the motion of my lips to Rosa — " Dead ! " 

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read, 
plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look 
quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with 
the vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face. 

The handsome lady — so like, oh, so like ! — regarded me with a fixed look, 
and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare 
herself to bear what I had to tell ; but I should rather have entreated her to 
weep, for she sat like a stone figure. 

"When I was last here," I faltered, "Miss Dartle told me he was sailing 
here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he were 
at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the 
vessel that was seen should really be the ship which — " 

" Rosa," said Mrs. Steerforth, " come to me ! " 

She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like 
fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh. 

"Now," she said, "is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he 
made atonement to you with his life! Do you hear? — His life!" 

Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair and making no sound but a 
rnoan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare. 

"Aye!" cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, "look at 
rnel Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!" striking the scar, "at 
your dead child's handiwork ! " 

The moan the mother uttered from time to time went to my heart. Always 


the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with an inca- 
pable motion of the head, hut with no change of face. Always proceeding 
from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face 
frozen up in pain. 

" Do you remember when he did this ? " she proceeded. " Do you remember 
when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride 
and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked 
until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made 
him ! " 

"Miss Dartle," I entreated her. "For Heaven's sake — " 

"I will speak," she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. "Be 
silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false — son! Moan 
for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, — moan for your 
loss of him, — moan for mine ! " 

She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure as 
if her passion were killing her by inches. 

"You, resent his self-will!" she exclaimed. You, injured by his haughty 
temper! You, who opposed, — when your hair was gray, the qualities which 
made both when you gave him birth ! You, who — from his cradle reared him 
to be what he was, — and stunted — what he should have been! Are you re- 
tvarded now for your years of trouble? " 

" O Miss Dartle, shame ! O cruel ! " 

"I tell you," she returned, "I will speak to her. No power on earth 
should stop me ! Have I been silent all these years, and shall I not speak 
now? /loved him better than you ever loved him! " turning on her fiercely. 
" I could have loved him, — and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could 
have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have 
been. Who knows it better than I ? You were exacting, proud, — punctilious, — 
selfish. My love would have been devoted — would have trod your paltry 
whimpering under foot ! " 

"With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did it. 

"Look here!" she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand. 
""When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done he saw it, 
and repented of it ! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show the 
ardor that I felt in all he did, and attain with labor to such knowledge as 
most interested him ; and I — attracted him. "When he was freshest and truest 
he loved — me. Yes, he did! Many a time when you — were put ofl* with a 
slight word he has taken Me to his heart ! " 

She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy — for it was 
little less — yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the smouldering 
embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment. 

" I descended — as I might have known I should — into a doll, a trifle for the 
occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as 
the inconstant humor took him. "When he grew weary, / grew weary. As 
his fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I had 
than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for his wife. 
We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and 
were not sorry. Since then I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture 
between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. 


Moan'.' Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the 
time was when / loved him better than you ever did!" 

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare and the 
set face; and softened no more when the moaning was repeated than if the 
face had been a picture. 

'•Miss Dartle," said I, "if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this 
Afflicted mother — " 

"Who feels for me f " she sharply retorted. "She has sown this. Let her 
moan for the harvest that she reaps to-day! " 

"And if his faults—" I began. 

"Faults!" she cried, bursting into passionate tears. "Who dares malign 
him ? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!'" 

" No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer remem- 
brance, than I," I replied. " I meant to say, if you have no compassion for 
his afflicted mother; or if his faults — you have been bitter on them — " 

" It 's false" she cried, tearing her black hair; " I loved him ! " 

" — can not," I went on, " be banished from your remembrance in such an 
hour, look at that figure, even as one you have never seen before, and render it 
some help I 11 

All this time the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable. Motion- 
less, — rigid, — staring ; moaning in the same dumb way from time to time, with 
the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no other sign of life. Miss 
Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it and began to loosen the dress. 

"A curse upon you!" she said, looking round at me, with a mingled ex- 
pression of rage and grief. " It was in an evil hour that you ever came here! 
A curse upon you ! Go ! " 

After passing out of the room I hurried back to ring the bell, the sooner 
to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figure in her arms, 
and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it, calling to it, rocking 
it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, and trying every tender means to 
rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid of leaving her, I noiselessly 
turned back again ; and alarmed the house as I went out. 

Later in the day I returned, and we laid him in his mother's room. She 
was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doctors were in 
attendance; many things had been tried; but she lay like a statue, except for 
the low sound now and then. 

I went through the dreary house and darkened the windows. The windows 
of the chamber where he lay I darkened last. I lifted up the leaden hand 
and held it to my heart ; and all the world seemed death — and silence, broken 
only by his mother's moaning. 


The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to dispel 
from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence any associations but 
those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election. 
The heating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, 
and tramping of horses echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the 
earliest dawn of day, and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of 


either party at once enlivened the preparations and agreeably diversified their 

" Well, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bed-room door 
just as he was concluding his toilet; "all alive to-day, I suppose?" 

"Keg'lar game, sir," replied Mr. Weller; "our people "s a collecting down 
at the Town Arms, and they're a hollering themselves hoarse already." 

"Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?" 

" Never see such dewotion in my life, sir." 

"Energetic, eh?" said Mr. Pickwick. 

" Uncommon," replied Sam ; " I never see men eat and drink so much 
afore. I wonder they aint afeer'd o' bustin'." 

"That 's the mistaken kindness of the gentry here," said Mr. Pickwick. 

"Wery likely," replied Sam, briefly. 

" Pine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem," said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from 
the window. 

" Wery fresh," replied Sam ; " me and the two waiters at the Peacock has 
been a pumpin' over the independent woters as supped there last night." 

" Pumping over independent voters ! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

" Yes," said his attendant ; " every man slept vere he fell down; we dragged 
'em out, one by one, this mornin' and put 'em under the pump, and they're in 
reg'lar fine order now. Shillin' a head the committee paid for that 'ere job." 

"Can such things be?" exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick. 

" Lord bless your heart, sir," said Sam; " why where was you half baptized? 
That's nothin', that aint." 

"Nothing?" said Mr, Pickwick. 

"Nothin' at all, sir," replied his attendant. "The night afore the day o' 
the last election here the opposite party bribed the bar-maid at the Town Arms 
to hocus the brandy and water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a stoppin' 
in the house." 

"What do you mean by 'hocussing' brandy and water?" inquired Mr. 

" Puttin' laud'num in it," replied Sam. " Blessed if she did n't send 'em all 
to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to 
the booth in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go — 
they wouldn't poll him; so they brought him back and put him to bed again." 

" Strange practices, these," said Mr. Pickwick, half speaking to himself and 
half addressing Sam. 

" Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own 
father, at an election time, in this wery place, sir," replied Sam. 

" What was that?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

"Why, he drove a coach down here once," said Sam; "'lection time came 
on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. 
Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t' other side sends for him 
quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in — large room — 
lots of gen'l'm'n — heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that 'ere. 'Ah, Mr. 
Waller,' says the gen'l'm'n in the chair, 'glad to see you, sir; how are you?' 
'Wery well, thank 'ee, sir,' says my father; 'I hopeyow're pretty middlin',' 
says he. 'Pretty well, thank 'ee, sir,' says the gen'l'm'n; 'sit down, Mr. Weller; 
pray sit down, sir.' So my father sits down, and he and the gen'l'm'n looks 


wery hard at each other. 'You don't remember me?' says the gen'l'm'n. 
'Can't say I do,' says my father. 'Oh, I know you,' says the gen'l'm'n; 
'know d you ven you was a hoy,' says he. 'Well, I don't remember you,' says 
my father. 'That's w cry odd,' says the gen'l'm'n. ' Wery,' says my father. 
' You must have a bad memory, Mr. Weller,' says the gen'l'm'n. ' Well, it 
is a wery bad 'un,' says my father. 'I thought so,' says the gen'l'm'n. So 
then they pours him out a glass o' wine, and gammons him about his driving, 
and gets him into a reg'lar good humor, and at last shoves a twenty-pound 
note in his hand. ' It 's a wery bad road between this and London,' says 
the gen'l'm'n. 'Here and there it is a wery heavy road,' says my father. 
''Specially near the canal, I think,' says the gen'l'm'n. 'Nasty bit, that 'ere,' 
says my father. 'Well, Mr. Weller,' says the gen'l'm'n, 'you 're a wery good 
whip, and can do what you like with your horses, w T e know. We 're all wery 
fond of you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you 're 
a bringing these here woters down, and should tip 'em over into the canal with- 
out hurtin' 'em, this is for yourself,' says he. 'Gen'l'm'n, you're wery kind,' 
says my father, 'and I'll drink your health in another glass of wine,' says he; 
vich he did, and then buttons up the money and bows himself out. You 
wouldn't believe, sir," continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence 
at his master, " that on the wery day as be came down with them woters his 
coach was upset on that 'ere wery spot, and ev'ry man on 'em was turned into 
the canal." 

" And got out again ? " inquired Mr. Pickwick, hastily. 

" Why," replied Sam, very slowly, " I rather think that one old gentleman 
was missin' ; I know his hat was found, but I aint quite certain whether his 
head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hextraordinary and won- 
derful coincidence, that arter what that gen'l'm'n said my father's coach 
should be upset in that wery place on that wery day ! " 

" It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed," said Mr. 
Pickwick. " But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to 

With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlor, where he found 
breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. 


To any one acquainted with the domestic economy of the establishment, 
and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his 
appearance and behavior on the morning previous to that which had been 
fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would have been most mysterious and 
unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his 
head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly 
referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience 
very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance 
was in contemplation, but what that something was not even Mrs. Bardell 
herself had been enabled to discover. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, as that amiable female approached the 
termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. 

" Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. 


"Tour little boy is a very long time gone." 

" Why, it 's a good long way to the Borough, sir." 

"Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed 
into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. "Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. 
Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. 

"Sir," said -Mrs. Bardell again. 

" Do you think it 's a much greater expense to keep two people — than to 
keep one? " 

" La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of 
her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the 
eyes of her lodger. " La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question ! " 

"Well, but do you?" 

" That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to 
Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table, " that depends a good 
deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick, and whether it's a saving and 
careful person, sir." 

"That's very true; but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very 
hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities, and has moreover a 
considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. 
Bardell, which may be of material use to me." 

" La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- 
border again. 

"I do indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up 
my mind." 

"Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. 

"You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, 
with a good-humored glance at his companion, "that I never consulted you 
about this matter, and never mentioned it till I sent your little boy out this 
morning, eh?" 

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshiped Mr. 
Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to 
which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. 
Pickwick was going to propose — a deliberate plan too — sent her little boy to 
the Borough to get him out of the way; how thoughtful — how considerate! 

"Well," said Mr. Pickwick, "what do you think?" 

"0 Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, "you're 
very kind, sir." 

" It '11 save you a good deal of trouble, won't it? " said Mr. Pickwick. 

"Oh, I never thought any thing of the trouble, sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; 
"and of course I should take more trouble to please you then than ever; 
but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my 

" Ah, to be sure ; I never thought of that. When I am in town you '11 
always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." 

" I 'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman." 

" And your little boy," said Mr. Pickwick; "he too will have a companion, 
a lively one, who '11 teach him, I '11 be bound, more tricks in a week than he 
would ever learn in a year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

"Oh, you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. 


Mr. Pickwick started. 

"Oh, you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more 
ado she rose from her chair and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, 
with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. 

•• Bless my soul, - ' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; "Mrs. Bardell, my 
good woman — dear me, what a situation— pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, do n't— 
if any body should come — " 

"Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; "I '11 never leave 
you, dear, kind, good soul;" and with these words Mrs. Bardell clung the 

••Mercy upon me,'' said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, "I hear some- 
body coming up the stairs. Do n't, do n't, there 's a good creature, do n't." 
But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing; for Mrs. Bardell had 
fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her 
on a chair Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. 
"Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. 

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless — and — speechless. He stood with his 
lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, 
without the slightest attempt at recognition — or explanation. They, in their 
turn, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared — at every body. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity 
of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly 
the same relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was 
restored had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial 
affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, 
spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the 
door astounded and uncertain ; but by degrees the impression that his mother 
must have suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed 
mind, and, considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling 
and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head com- 
menced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs with such 
blows and pinches as the strength of his arm and the violence of his excitement 

"Take this little villain away,'' said the agonized Mr. Pickwick; "he's 

"AVhat is the matter? " said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians. 

"I do n't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. "Take away the boy — " 
(here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the 
farther end of the apartment). — " Now help me to lead this woman down stairs." 

"Oh, I am better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. 

" Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman. 

" Thank you, sir — thank you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And 
down stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. 

" I can not conceive." said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — "I 
can not conceive — what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely 
announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into 
the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary 

"Very" said his three friends. 


" Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. 

'-Very ! M was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and 
looked dubiously at each other. 

This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their in- 
credulity. They evidently suspected him. 

•• There is a man in the passage now,' 7 said Mr. Tupman. 

u It s the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick. " I sent 
for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, 

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith 
presented himself. 

With illustration simple, yet profound, and with unfaltering zeal, 
He spake from a warm heart, and made even cold hearts feel; 
This is eloquence; 'tis the intense, 

Impassioned fervor of a mind, deep fraught 
With native energy, when soul, and sense 

Burst forth, embodied in the burning thought; 
When look, emotion, tone, and all combine; 
When the whole man is eloquent with mind; 
A form that comes not to the call or quest, 
But from the gifted soul, and the deep-feeling breast. 


At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power; 
In dreams through camp and court he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard: 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood; 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 


An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek! 
He woke to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band: 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires'; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God and your native land!" 

They fought — like brave men, long and well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud huzza, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet-song and dance and wine; 
And thou art terrible ! The tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know or dream or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; . 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, ■ 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave 

Even in her own proud clime. 


We tell thy doom without a sigh; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 


There are poems unwritten and songs unsung 
Sweeter than any that ever were heard; 

Poems — that wait for an angel tongue, 
Songs— that but long for a paradise- bird. 

Poems — that ripple through lowliest lives ; 

Poems un worded and hidden away, 
Down in the soul where the beautiful thrives 

Sweetly as flowers in the airs of May. 

Poems — that only the angels above us, 

Looking down deep in our hearts, may behold ; 

Felt, — though unseen, by the beings who love us, 
"Written on lives as in letters of gold. 

Sing to my soul the sweet song that thou lovest 
Bead me the poem that never was penned, — 

The wonderful idyl of life that thou givest 
Fresh from thy spirit, O beautiful friend ! 


I have nothing to say to you, dearest, — 

Nothing that I can write, — 
For all the word that I had to send 

I sent by the post to-night. 

Not in the form of a letter, 

"With mark and stamp and seal, 
Did I trust the tender message 

That my soul had to reveal. 

Not in a bunch of blossoms, 

Not in a sweet bouquet, 
Did I hide the beautiful meaning 

Of the words I dared not say. 

But I sent the sweet heart-music 

No mortal on earth e'er wrote. 
"What need that the soul's soft melodies 

Be written down by note ? 

So I have nothing to say to you, dearest, 

But to send you my love at most. 
And the news of my heart that I can not write 

I send by the Angel Post. 




Tread so/%,— -bow the head,— 

In reverent silence — bow ; — 
No passing bell — doth toll, — 
Yet — an immortal soul 

Is passing — now. 
Stranger! however great, 

With lowly reverence bow; 
There 's one in that poor shed, — 
One — by that paltry bed, — 

Greater — than thou. 
Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo! Death — doth keep his state; 
Enter, — no crowds attend; — 
Enter, — no guards defend 

This palace gate. 
That pavement, — damp — and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread; 
One silent woman stands 
Lifting with meager hands 

A dying head. 
No smiling voices sound ; 

An infant — wail alone; 
A sob suppressed ; — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan I 
O change! — wondrous — change! 

Burst are the prison-bav^,— 
This moment — there, so low, 
So agonized, — and now — 

Beyond the stars. 
O change! stupendous change! — 

There lies the soulless clod; 
The sun eternal breaks, 
The new immortal wakes, 

Wakes — with his God. 


A fresh gale from the north has sprung up, and carried us off the coast 
of St. Mary's, where we are to land and take in water ; so I shall have time 
to speak of one peculiarity of this people, which has been my study, more or 
less, ever since I came on board. I find, on acquaintance, one redeeming trait, 
which would go far to atone for many shortcomings, because it may finally 
prepare the way to arrest and amend them. They are more devout in their 
common life than any other people I have ever known. Do not infer from 
this, O Hadgi Hassan, that they waste their time or spend their money in 
pilgrimages to kiss the holy stone of the Kaaba, or perform its sacred walk. 
And as to the nine ablutions, appearances do not indicate any very strict 


observances of this sort. But they have certain forms of worship, which they 
use on almost all occasions. In their work and in their rest, and even in their 
story-telling, they often call on God in the most earnest and vehement manner, 
and also sometimes on their prophet. They frequently invoke curses on their 
enemies; and this I can understand perfectly, for it is in strict accordance 
with the word of the great Prophet, as written in the Holy Book. But when 
I hear them pray God to curse themselves, and especially their own eyes, I am 
perplexed. It may, however, he merely a form of penance or of self-sacrifice 
which is in use amongst them. There is something in these ejaculations that 
affects me strangely— I could almost say unpleasantly; yet I have the strongest 
conviction of their sincerity. They have no particular form for these prayers, 
neither is their worship confined to stated times. They do not welcome the 
rising nor dismiss the setting sun with prayer and praise; but every man is 
permitted to adopt his own forms and times for these exercises. I observe that 
their ejaculations become more ardent when there is a great pressure of work- 
but most especially when the work goes wrong. All this is certainly very 
natural; for at such times we feel more need to call on Allah for his help 
and guidance. I have also observed that the men moved with much greater 
celerity while under their influence; Does not this show their sincerity? 

I said that these people have no regular time for prayer ; but there may be 
a slight mistake in this. A person called a Chaplain — which is, I suppose, a 
kind of Marabout* — calls all the men together once a week, on the Sabbath 
of their Prophet, and talks to them awhile. I believe they call these formalities 
devotions; but they have none of the zeal and heartiness of the spontaneous 
exercises ; and their gravity might very easily be mistaken for dullness, as both 
speaker and hearers seem to feel. There is a sensible relief at the close, when I 
observe they all get a good, long inspiration, and stretch themselves as if they 
had felt contracted, or had not breathed freely under the imposed restraint. 

1 observe that the Chaplain never makes use of any of these forms of social 
prayer, which are in common use by every other man on board, from the 
commodore down to the cabin-boy. He must either be less devout by nature 
than they, or else he is jealous of a wide diffusion of the religious principle, 
lest the foundations of his place should be undermined and his profession itself 
destroyed. Their worship, being spontaneous, is more hearty and sincere; 
and when they can pray so well for themselves he may reasonably fear that 
they will hardly employ another to pray for them. I have observed too that 
these ejaculations are seldom uttered, unless, as it were, from habit or by 
chance, in the presence of the spiritual teacher. Are they conscious of tres- 
passing on his rights, or afraid that he will vindicate his prerogative? 

An unexpected opportunity for sending this occurs, and I hasten to improve 
it. A respectable Arab traveler has just come on board, from an English ship 
bound for Algiers. I inclose iii this package a volume of the writings of 
Channing. He was a priest of Jesus, and, I am told, he did great good for 
his people. His heart is large and deep as the ocean. It embraces the whole 
race, recognizing the good of the lowest. You will find many an echo to our 
own thoughts in these volumes. Let them be the companions of your most 
sacred hours. Let them speak to you as your bosom friend! 

* Priest. 



The orator's field is the universe of mind and matter, and his subjects all 
that is known of God and man. Study the principles of things, and never rest 
satisfied with the results and applications. All distinguished speakers, whether 
thev over paid any systematic attention to the principles of elocution or not, 
in their most successful efforts conform to them; and their imperfections are 
the results of deviations from these principles. Think correctly— rather than 
finely; sound conclusions are much better than beautiful conceptions. Be useful 
rather than showy; and speak to the purpose, or not speak at all. Persons 
become eminent by the force of mind, — the power of thinking comprehensively, 
deeply, closely, usefully. Rest more on the thought, feeling, and expression than 
on any particular style; for language, is like the atmosphere — a medium of 
vision, intended not to be seen itself, but to make other objects seen; the more 
transparent, however, the better. 

XII.— PROFANITY. E. H. Chapin. 

You whose blood would boil to hear the venerable names of your earthly 
parents hurled about in scoffs and jests, abuse without compunction and with- 
out thought the name of your heavenly Father ! Finally,, profaneness is an 
awful vice. Once more I ask, whose name is it you so lightly use? That 
name of God — have you ever pondered its meaning? Have you ever thought 
what it is that you mingle thus with your passion and your wit? It is the 
name of Him whom the angels worship and whom the heaven of heavens can 
not contain ! Profane man ! though habit be ever so stringent with you, when 
the word of mockery and of blasphemy is about to leap from your lips think 
of these considerations — think of God, and instead of that rude oath cry out 
in reverent prayer, "Hallowed be thy name!" 


" Rose ! thou art the sweetest flower 
That ever drank the amber shower ; 
Rose ! thou art the fondest child 
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild ! " 

The rose is mentioned by the earliest writers of antiquity as an object of 
culture. Herodotus speaks of the double rose, and Solomon of the Rose of 
Sharon and of the plantations of roses at Jericho. Theophrastus tells us that 
the hundred-leaved rose grew in his time on Mount Pangaeus ; and it appears 
that the Isle of Rhodes (Isle of Roses) received its name from the culture of 
roses carried on there. Roses were more highly prized by the Romans than 
any other flowers, and they had even attained to the luxury of forcing them. 
Under the reign of Domitian the Egyptians thought of offering to that 
emperor's courts, as a magnificent present, roses in the middle of winter; 
but this the Romans smiled at, so abundant were roses in Rome at that 
.season. "In every street," says Martial, "the odor of spring is breathed, and 
garlands of flowers, freshly gathered, are displayed. Send us corn, Egyptians! 
and we will send you roses." Roses were employed both by the Greeks and 
Romans to decorate their tombs. Of the history of the rose from the time of the 


Romans till the time of Tournefort, when botany became a science, very little 
is known; but there can be no doubt that in the dark ages they were held in 
esteem by all who could procure them. When Saladin took Jerusalem in 1128 
he would not enter the mosque of the Temple — then converted to a church 
by the Christians — till the walls had been thoroughly washed and purified with 
rose-water. Voltaire says that after the taking of- Constantinople by Mahomet 
II., in 1453, the church of St. Sophia was washed with rose-water in a similar 
manner before it was converted into a mosque. 

We read in the History of the Mogul Empire, by Father Catron, that the 
celebrated Princess Nourmahal filled an entire canal with rose-water, upon 
which she was in the habit of sailing along with the Great Mogul. The heat 
of the sun disengaged the essential oil from the rose-water. This was observed 
floating upon the surface of the water, and thus was made the discovery 
of the essence, otto or ottar, of roses. Formerly it was the custom to carry 
large vessels filled with rose-water to baptisms. Bayle relates, upon this 
subject, that at the birth of Rousard his nurse, on the way to church, let him 
fall upon a heap of flowers, and that at this instant the woman who held the 
vessel of rose-water poured it upon the infant. Roses were often, in the days 
of chivalry, worn by cavaliers at tournaments as an emblem of their devotion 
to love and beauty. The rose has been a favorite subject with the poets of all 
countries in all ages. It was dedicated by the Greeks to Aurora as an emblem 
of youth, from its freshness and revivifying fragrance; to Venus as an emblem 
of love and beauty, from the elegance of its flowers; and to Cupid as an 
emblem of fugacity and danger, from the fleeting nature of its charms and 
the wounds inflicted by its thorns. It was given by Cupid to Harpocrates, the 
God of Silence, as a bribe to prevent him from betraying the amours of Venus, 
and was hence adopted as the emblem of silence. The rose was for this reason 
frequently sculptured on the ceilings of drinking and feasting-rooms as a 
warning to the guests that what was said in moments of conviviality should 
hot be repeated, from which what was intended to be kept secret was said to 
be told "under the rose." The Greek poets say that the rose was originally 
white, but that it was changed to red, according to some, from the blood of 
Venus, who lacerated her feet with its thorns when rushing to the aid 
of Adonis; and according to others, from the blood of Adonis himself. 

The fragrance of the rose is said by the poets to be derived from nectar 
thrown over it by Cupid, and its thorns to be the stings of the bees with which 
the arc of his bow was strung. Anacreon makes their birth coeval with those 
of Venus and Minerva: 

" When then, in strange, eventful hour, 
The earth produced an infant flower, 
Which sprang with blushing tinctures drest 
And wanton'd o'er its parent breast, 
The gods beheld this brilliant birth, 
And hail'd the rose — the boon of earth." 

Another fable relating to the birth of the rose is that Flora, having found 
the dead body of one of her favorite nymphs, whose beauty could only be 
equaled by her virtue, implored the assistance of all the gods and goddesses 
to aid her in changing it into a flower which all others should acknowledge 
to be their queen. Apollo lent the vivifying power of his beams; Bacchus 


bathed it in nectar; Vortumnus gave its perfume; Pomona its fruits; and 
Flora herself its diadem of flowers. Other mythological writers relate that 
the beautiful Rhodante, Queen of Corinth, to escape the persecutions of her 
lovers, attempted to seclude herself in the temple of Diana; but, being forced by 
the clamor of the people from her sanctuary, prayed to the gods to change her 
into a rose, which still bears the blushes that dyed her cheeks when forced to 
expose herself to public gaze, and under which form she is still universally 
admired. A beetle is often represented on antique gems as expiring sur- 
rounded by roses; and this is supposed to be an emblem of a man enervated 
by luxury, the beetle being said to have such an antipathy to roses that the 
smell of them will cause its death. Pliny tells us that they garnished their 
dishes with these flowers, and cites the custom of wearing garlands of them 
at their feasts. Cleopatra received Antony, at one of her banquets, in an 
apartment covered with rose-leaves to a considerable depth; and Antony him- 
self when dying begged to have roses scattered on his tomb. 

The Koman generals who had achieved any remarkable victory were per- 
mitted to have roses sculptured on their shields. Rose-water was the favorite 
perfume of the Roman ladies, and the most luxurious even used it in their baths. 
The Turks believe that roses sprang from the perspiration of Mahomet, for 
which reason they never tread upon a rose-leaf or suffer one to lie on the ground. 
They also sculpture a rose on the tombstones of females who die unmarried. 
In an old mosaic in the church of St. Susan, at Rome. Charlemagne is repre- 
sented kneeling and receiving from St. Peter a standard covered with roses. 
The custom of blessing the roses is still preserved in Rome, and the day on 
which the ceremony is performed is called Dominica in Rosa. The seal of 
Luther was a rose. In 530 St. Medard, Bishop of Noyon, instituted a festival 
atSalency, his birth-place, for adjudging annually the prize of a crown of roses 
to the girl who should be acknowledged by all her competitors to be the most 
amiable, modest, and dutiful in the village; and he had the pleasure of crown- 
ing his own sister as the first Rose Queen. This custom was continued to the 
time of Madame de Genlis. In the middle ages the knights at a tournament 
wore a rose embroidered on their sleeves, as an emblem that gentleness should 
accompany courage, and that beauty was the reward of valor. The French 
Parliament had formerly a day of ceremony called Baillee de Roses, because 
great quantities of roses were distributed. Shakespeare, who no doubt fol- 
lowed some old legend or chronicle, derives the assumption of the red and the 
white roses by the rival houses of York and Lancaster from a quarrel in the 
Temple Gardens between Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, and the Earl 
of Somerset, the partisan of Henry of Lancaster. Finding that their voices 
were getting too loud, Plantagenet proposes that they shall 

" In dumb significance proclaim their thoughts;" 

" Let him who is a true-born gentleman 

Anr] stands upon the honor of his birth, 

If he supposes I have pleaded truth, 

From off this briar pluck a white rose with me." 

To which Somerset replies: t 

' Let him who is no coward nor no flatterer, 
But dare maintain the party of the truth, 
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me." 


Their respective followers gathered the different-colored roses ; and hence 
tradition says these flowers were adopted as the badges of the houses of York 
and Lancaster during the civil wars which afterward desolated the country for 
more than thirty years. The Eosa Alba is said to have been the one chosen 
as the badge of the House of York and the Eosa Gallica as that of Lancaster. 
The York and Lancaster rose, which, when it comes true, has one half of the 
flower red and the other half white, was named in commemoration of the union 
of the two houses by the marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth of York. 

Among historical reminiscences of the rose is this charming allegory: A 
Turkish poet, Abdulkadri, had the design of establishing himself at Babylon. 
The Babylonians were unwilling to receive him ; but they dared not declare 
it to him openly. To make him comprehend their thoughts they passed before 
him with a vase filled with water, that he might understand that as the vase 
was full nothing could be added to it ; also, their city was in the same manner 
filled with poets and learned men until there was no room left for another. 
Abdulkadri understood perfectly that enigma, and for his response he stooped, 
picked up the leaf of a rose that was on the ground, placed it carefully on the 
surface of the water in the vase, showing them that it kept its place without 
causing the water to overflow, though the vase was full. That act appeared 
so marvelous to the Babylonians that they regarded Abdulkadri as a man of 
superior genius, and they conducted him in triumph to the city. 


Captain Dayson had gone out one morning to see the sun rise in a very 
beautiful part of the desert. He says : " Suddenly I heard a hoarse cough, and 
on turning around saw distinctly in the fog a queer little old man standing 
near, and looking at me. I instinctively cocked my gun, as the idea of Bush- 
men and poisoned arrows flashed across my mind. The old man instantly 
dropped upon his hands, giving another hoarse cough, that evidently told a 
tale of consumptive lungs, snatched up something behind him, which seemed to 
leap on his shoulders, and then scampered off up the ravine on all fours. Before 
half this performance was completed I had discovered my mistake. The little 
old man turned out to be an ursine baboon, with an infant ditto, which had 
come down the kloof to drink. A large party of the old gentleman's family 
were sitting up the ravine, and were evidently in a debate as to the cause of 
my intrusion. I watched them through my glass, and was much amused at 
their grotesque and almost human movements. Some of the ladies had their 
olive branches in their laps, and appeared to be 'doing their hair;' while 
a patriarchal-looking old fellow paced backward and forward with a sort 
of fussy look. He was evidently on sentry, and seemed to think himself of no 
small importance. This estimate of his dignity did not appear to be univer- 
sally acknowledged, as two or three young baboons sat close behind him 
watching his proceedings. Sometimes, with the most grotesque movements 
and expressions, they would stand directly in his path, and hobble away only 
at the last moment. One daring youngster followed close on the heels of the 
patriarch during the whole length of his beat, and gave a sharp tug at his tail 
as he was about to turn. . The old fellow seemed to treat it with the greatest 
indifference, scarcely turning round at the insult. Master impudence was 


about repeating the performance, when the pater, showing that he was not 
such a fool as he looked, suddenly sprang round and, catching the young one 
before he could escape, gave him two or three such cuffs that I could hear the 
screams that resulted therefrom. The venerable gentleman then chucked the 
delinquent over his shoulder and continued his promenade with the greatest 
coolness. This old baboon evidently was acquainted with the practical details 
of Solomon's proverb. A crowd gathered around the naughty child, which, 
childlike, seeing commiseration, shrieked the louder. I even fancied I could 
see the angry glances of the mamma as she took her dear little pet in her 
arms and removed it from the repetition of such brutal treatment." 

"We are told likewise of a tame baboon whose great delight was in fright- 
ening the Kafir women. On selecting his victim, he would rush at her as if he 
intended to devour her, and away she would fly for dear life, dropping her basket 
or hoe. But he soon caught hold of her, and, seizing her by one leg, stared her 
in the face, mewing and grinning, and moving his eyebrows at her like an 
incarnate fiend. When her screams at length brought assistance, in the shape 
of a Kafir cur, Jocko sprang up a tree, and, resting secure upon an upper 
branch, gazed upward and around with a quiet contemplative air, as though 
he had sought this elevated position for the sole purpose of meditating on the 
weakness of baboon and animal nature generally, but more particularly on 
the foibles of excited Kafir curs. 

The baboon when tame, however, is sometimes of more use than to frighten 
women, who he knows will throw down the hoe instead of breaking his head 
with it. He is made to discover water in the desert when his master would 
perhaps perish without it. A little salt is rubbed on his tongue to irritate his 
thirst, and then he is let go. He runs along a bit, scratches himself, shows his 
teeth, takes a smell up wind, looks all around, picks up a bit of grass, smells 
or eats it, stands up for another sniff, canters on, and so on. Wherever the 
nearest water is he is sure to go. 

XV.— WILLIAM PITT. Macaulay. 

Pitt was emphatically the man of parliamentary government, the type 
of his class, the minion, the child, the spoiled child, of the House of Commons. 
For the House of Commons he had an hereditary, an infantine love. It was 
when the House of Commons was to be convinced and persuaded that he put 
forth all his powers. 

Of those powers we must form our estimate chiefly from tradition ; for of all 
the eminent speakers of the last age Pitt has suffered most from the reporters. 
Even while he was still living critics remarked that his eloquence could not be 
preserved, that he must be heard to be appreciated. There is, however, abun- 
dant evidence that nature had bestowed on Pitt the talents of a great orator; 
and those talents had been developed in a very peculiar manner: first, by his 
education ; and secondly, by the high official position to which he rose early, 
and in which he passed the greater part of his public life. 

At his first appearance in Parliament he showed himself superior to all his 
contemporaries in command of language. He could pour forth a long succes- 
sion of round and stately periods, without premeditation, without ever pausing 
for a word, without ever repeating a word, in a voice of silver clearness, and 


with a pronunciation so articulate that not a letter was slurred over. His 
declamation was copious, polished, and splendid. In power of sarcasm he was 
probably not surpassed by any speaker, ancient or modern; and of this formi- 
dable weapon he made merciless use. In two parts of the oratorical art which 
are of the highest value to a minister of state he was singularly expert. No 
man knew better how to be luminous or how to be obscure. When he wished 
to be understood he never failed to make himself understood. He could with 
ease present to his audience, not perhaps an exact or profound, but a clear, 
popular, and plausible view of the most extensive and complicated subject. 
Nothing was out of place ; nothing was forgotten. Minute details, dates, 
sums of money, were all faithfully preserved in his memory. Even intricate 
questions of finance when explained by him seemed clear to the plainest man 
among his hearers. On the other hand, when he did not wish to be explicit — 
and no man who is at the head of affairs always wishes to be explicit — he had 
a marvelous power of saying nothing in language which left on his audience 
the impression that he had said a great deal. He was at once the only man 
who could open a budget without notes, and the only man who, as Wyndham 
said, could speak that most elaborately evasive and unmeaning of human com- 
positions, a king's speech, without premeditation. 


"Walking along a high park wall which forms one part of the town, or 
rather which stops the town from extending further in that direction — the top 
covered with ivy, that garment of English walls and buildings — I come to the 
gateway of the approach. A porter opens its huge leaf. Cut through a solid 
rock, the road, some twenty feet wide, winds for a long way in the most solemn 
beauty. The sides, in solid rock, vary from five to twenty feet in height — at 
least so it seemed to my imagination, the only faculty that I allowed to con- 
duct me. It was covered on both hands with ivy, growing down from above 
and hanging in beautiful reaches. Solemn trees on the bank, on either side, 
met overhead, and cast a delicious twilight down upon my way, and made it 
yet softer by a murmuring of their leaves. Winding in graceful curves, it at 
last brings you to the first view of the castle, at a distance of some hundred 
rods before you. It opens on the sight with grandeur. On either corner is a 
huge tower, apparently one hundred and fifty feet high. In the center is a 
square tower, called properly a gateway; and a huge wall connects this central 
access with the two corner towers. I stood for a little, and let the vision 
pierce me through. Who can tell what he feels in such a place? Primeval 
forests, the ocean, prairies, Niagara, I had seen and felt; but never had I seen 
any pile around which were historic associations blended not only with heroic 
men and deeds, but savoring of my own childhood. And now too am I to 
see, and understand by inspection, the things which Scott has made so familiar 
to all as mere words — moats, portcullises, battlements, keeps or mounds, arrow- 
slit windows, watch-towers. They had a strange effect upon me. They were 
perfectly new, and yet familiar old friends. I had never seen them, yet the 
moment I did see all was instantly plain. I knew name and use, and seemed 
in a moment to have known them always. 

I came up to the moat, now dry and lined with beautiful shrubs and trees, 


1 the bridge, and entered the outer gateway or arched door, through a 
solid square tower. The portcullis was drawn up, but I could see the pro- 
jecting end. Another similar gateway, a few steps further on, showed the 
care with which the defense was managed. This passed, a large court opened, 
surrounded on every side with towers, walls, and vast ranges of buildings. 
Here 1 beheld the pictures which I had seen on paper magnified into gigantic 
realities. Drawings of many-faced, irregular Gothic mansions, measuring an 
inch or two, with which my childhood was familiar, here stood before me 
measuring hundreds and hundreds of feet. It was the first sight of a real 
baronial castle. It was a historic dream breaking forth into a waking reality. 

It is of very little use to tell you how large the court is by feet and rods, 
or that Guy's Tower is one hundred and twenty-eight feet high and Caesars 
Tower one hundred and forty-seven. But it may touch your imagination, 
and wheel it suddenly backward with long flight and wide vision, to say that 
Caesar's Tower has stood for eight hundred years, being coeval with the 
Norman Conquest! I stood upon its mute stones, and imagined the ring 
of the hammer upon them when the mason was laying them in their bed 
of ages. When these stones were placed it was yet to be two hundred years 
before Gower and Chaucer should be born. Indeed since this mortar was 
wetted and cemented these stones the original people — the Normans, the 
Danes, the Saxons — have been mixed together into one people. "When this 
stone on which I lean took its place there was not then a printed book in 
England. Printing was invented hundreds of years after these foundations 
went down. When the rude workmen put their shoulders to these stones the 
very English language lay unborn in the loins of its parent tongues. The 
men that laughed and jested as they wrought, and had their pride of skill; 
the architect and the lord for whose praise he fashioned these stones; the 
villagers that wondered as they looked upon the growing pile; why, they are. 
now no more to men's memories than the grass they trod on, or the leaves 
which they cast in felling the oak! 

Against these stones on which I lay my hand have rung the sounds of 
battle. Yonder, on these very grounds, there raged, in sight of men that 
stood where I do, fiercest and deadliest conflicts. All this ground has fed 
on blood. 

I walked across to Guy's Tower, up its long stone stairway, into some of its 
old soldiers' rooms. The pavements were worn, though of stone, with the 
heavy grinding feet of men-at-arms. I heard them laugh between their cups. 
I saw them devouring their gross food. I heard them recite their feats, or tell 
the last news of some knightly outrage, or cruel oppression of the despised 
laborer. I stood by the window out of which the archer sent his whistling 
arrows. I stood by the openings through which scalding water or molten lead 
were poured upon the heads of assailants; and heard the hoarse shriek of the 
wretched fellows from below as they got the shocking baptism. I ascended 
to the roof of the tower, and looked over the wide glory of the scene, still 
haunted with the same imaginations of the olden time. How many thoughts 
have flown hence besides mine — here where warriors looked out, or ladies 
watched for their knights' return! 

Grand and glorious were the trees that waved in the grounds about the 
castle; but, though some of them had seen centuries, they were juvenile sprouts 


in comparir-on -with these old walls and towers on which William the Con- 
queror had walked. 

Already the sun was drooping far down the west and sending its golden 
glow sideways through the trees, and the glades in the park were gathering 
twilight as I turned to give a last look at these strange scenes. I walked 
slowly through the gateway, crossed the bridge over the moat, turned and 
looked back upon the old towers, whose tops reddened yet in the sun, though 
I was in deep shadow. Then, walking backward, looking still, till I came to 
the woods, I took my farewell of Warwick Castle. 


As I approached the church I perceived that we were to pass through the 
churchyard for some little distance; and an avenue of lime-trees, meeting 
overhead, formed a beautiful way, through which my soul exulted to go up 
to the house of God. The interior was stately and beautiful — it was to me; 
and I am not describing anything to you as it was, but am describing myself 
while in the presence of scenes with which, through books, you are familiar. 
As I sat down in a pew close by the reading-desk and pulpit I looked along 
to the chancel, which stretched some fifty or sixty feet back of the pulpit and 
desk, and saw upon the wall the well-known bust of Shakespeare; and I 
knew that beneath the pavement under that his dust reposed. 

In a few minutes a little fat man, with a red collar and red cuffs, advanced 
from a side room behind the pulpit, and led the way for the rector, a man of 
about fifty years, bald, except on the sides of his head, which were covered 
with white hair. I had been anxious lest some Cowper's ministerial fop should 
officiate, and the sight of this aged man was good. The form of his face and 
head indicated firmness, but his features were suffused with an expression of 
benevolence. He ascended the reading-desk, and the services began. I can 
not tell you how much I was affected. I had never had such a trance of 
worship, and I shall never have such another view until I gain the Gate. 

I am so ignorant of the church service that I can not call the various parts 
by their right names; but the portions which most affected me were the prayers 
and responses which the choir sang. I had never heard any part of a suppli- 
cation — a direct prayer — chanted by a choir; and it seemed as though I heard 
not with my ear, but with my soul. I was dissolved. My whole being seemed 
to me like an incense wafted gratefully toward God. My soul, then thou did'st 
magnify the Lord, and rejoice in the God of my salvation! And then came 
to my mind the many exultations of the Psalms of David; and never before 
were the expressions and figures so noble and so necessary to express what I 
felt. I had risen, it seemed to me, so high as to be where David was when his 
soul conceived the things which he wrote. Throughout the service, and it 
was an hour and a quarter long, whenever an "Amen" occurred it was given 
by the choir, accompanied by the organ and the congregation. Oh, that 
swell and solemn cadence rings in my ear yet! Not once, not a single time, 
did it occur in that service, from beginning to end, without bringing tears 
from my eyes. I stood like a shrub in a spring morning — every leaf covered 
with dew, and every breeze shook down some drops. I trembled so much at 
times that I was obliged to sit down. Oh, when in the prayers, breathed forth 


in strains of sweet, simple, solemn music, the love of Christ was recognized, 
how I longed then to give utterance to what that love seemed to me! There 
was a moment in which the heavens seemed opened to me, and I saw the glory 
of God! All the earth seemed to me a store-house of images, made to set 
forth the Redeemer; and I could scarcely be still from crying out. I never 
knew, I never dreamed before, of what heart there was in that word — amen. 
Every time it swelled forth, and died away solemnly, not my lips, not my 
mind, but my whole being said — Savior, so let it be. 


They are called the Constituent Assembly. Never was name less appro- 
priate. They were not constituent, but the very reverse of constituent. They 
constituted nothing that stood or deserved to last. They had not, and they 
could not possibly have, the information or the habits of mind which are 
necessary for the framing of that most exquisite of all machines — a govern- 
ment. The metaphysical cant with which they prefaced their constitution has 
long been the scoff of all parties. Their constitution itself — that constitution, 
which they described as absolutely perfect, and for which they predicted immor- 
tality — disappeared in a few months, and left no trace behind it. They were 
great only in the work of destruction. 

The glory of the National Assembly is this, that they were in truth, what 
Mr. Burke called them in austere irony, the ablest architects of ruin that ever 
the world saw. They were utterly incompetent to perform any work which 
required a discriminating eye and a skillful hand. But the work which was 
then to be done was a work of devastation. They had to deal with abuses so 
horrible and so deeply rooted that the highest political wisdom could scarcely 
have produced greater good to mankind than was produced by their fierce and 
senseless temerity. Demolition is undoubtedly a vulgar task. The highest 
glory of the statesman is to construct. But there is a time for everything — 
a time to set up, and a time to pull down. The talents of revolutionary 
leaders and those of the legislator have equally their use and their season. It 
is the natural, the almost universal law that the age of insurrections and 
proscriptions shall precede the age of good government, of temperate liberty, 
and liberal order. 

And how could it be otherwise? It is not in swaddling-bands that we learn 
to walk. It is not in the dark that we learn to distinguish colors. It is not 
under oppression that we learn how to use freedom. The ordinary sophism 
by which misrule is defended is, when truly stated, this: The people must 
continue in slavery, because slavery has generated in them all the vices of 
slaves. Because they are ignorant, they must remain under a power which 
has made and which keeps them ignorant. Because they have been made 
ferocious by misgovernment, they must be misgoverned forever. If the 
system under which they lived were so mild and liberal that under its opera- 
tion they had become humane and enlightened, it would be safe to venture on 
a change. The English Revolution, it is said, was truly a glorious revolution. 
Practical evils were redressed; no excesses were committed; no sweeping 
confiscations took place; the authority of the laws was scarcely for a moment 
suspended; the fullest and freest discussion was tolerated in Parliament; the 



nation showed by the calm and temperate manner in which it asserted its 
liberty that it was fit to enjoy liberty. The French Revolution was, on the 
other hand, the most horrible event recorded in history, — all madness and 
wickedness, — absurdity in theory, and atrocity in practice. What folly and 
injustice in the revolutionary laws! "What fanaticism! What licentiousness! 
What cruelty! This it is to give freedom to those who have neither wisdom 
nor virtue. 

It would be impossible even to glance at all the causes of the French Kev- 
olution within the limits to which we must confine ourselves. One thing is 
clear. The government, the aristocracy, and the church were rewarded after 
their works. They reaped that which they had sown. They found the nation 
such as they had made it. That the people had become possessed of irresist- 
ible power before they had attained the slightest knowledge of the art of 
government — that practical questions of vast moment were left to be solved 
by men to whom politics had been only matter of theory — that a legislature 
was composed of persons who were scarcely fit to compose a debating society — 
that the whole nation was ready to lend an ear to any flatterer who appealed 
to its cupidity, to its fears, or to its thirst for vengeance — all this was the effect 
of misrule, obstinately continued in defiance of solemn warnings and of the 
visible signs of an approaching retribution. 


Never, since England was England, had such a sight been seen as now 
revealed itself in those narrow straits between Dover and Calais. Along that 
long, low, sandy shore, and quite within the range of the Calais fortifications, 
one hundred and thirty Spanish ships — the greater number of them the largest 
and most heavily armed in the world — lay face to face, and scarcely out of 
cannon shot, with one hundred and fifty English sloops and frigates, the 
strongest and swiftest that the island could furnish, and commanded by men 
whose exploits had rung through the world. 

It was a pompous spectacle, that midsummer night, upon those narrow 
seas. The moon, which Avas at the full, was rising calmly upon a sea of 
anxious expectation. Would she not be looking by the morrow's night upon 
a subjugated England, a re-enslaved Holland — upon the downfall of civil and 
religious liberty? Those ships of Spain, which lay there with their banners 
waving in the moonlight, discharging salvoes of anticipated triumph, and 
filling the air with strains of insolent music, would they not by daybreak be 
moving straight to their purpose, bearing the conquerors of the world to the 
scene of their cherished hopes? 

That English fleet toe which rode there at anchor, so anxiously on the 
watch, would that swarm of nimble, lightly-handled, but slender vessels, 
which had held their own hitherto in hurried and desultory skirmishes, be 
able to cope with their great antagonist now that the moment had arrived 
for the death grapple? Would not Howard, Drake, Frobisher, Seymour, 
Winter, and Hawkins be swept out of the straits at last, yielding an open 
passage to Medina, Oquendo, Recalde, and Farnese? Would those Hollanders 
and Zealanders, cruising so vigilantly among their treacherous shallows, dare 


to maintain their post now that the terrible Holofernes with his invincible 
legions was resolved to come forth? 

Next day, Sunday, August 7, 1588, the two great fleets were still lying 
but a mile and a half apart, calmly gazing at each other, and rising and 
falling at their anchors as idly as if some vast summer regatta were the only 
purpose of that great assemblage of shipping. Nothing as yet was heard of 
Farnese. Thus far, at least, the Hollanders had held him at bay, and there 
was still breathing-time before the catastrophe 

On the other hand, upon the decks of the Armada there was an impatience 
that night which increased every hour. The governor of Calais, M. de 
Gourdon, had sent his nephew on board the flag-ship of Medina Sidonia with 
courteous salutations, professions of friendship, and bountiful refreshments. 
There was no fear — now that Mucio was for the time in the ascendency — 
that the schemes of Philip would be interfered with by France. The governor 
had, however, sent serious warning of the dangerous position in w 7 hich the 
Armada had placed itself. He was quite right. Calais roads were no safe 
anchorage for huge vessels like those of Spain and Portugal; for the tides 
and cross-currents to which they were exposed were most treacherous. It was 
calm enough at the moment; but a westerly gale might in a few hours drive the 
whole fleet hopelessly among the sand-banks of the dangerous Fleming coast. 

And the impatience of the soldiers and sailors on board the fleet w 7 as equal 
to that of their commanders. There was London almost before their eyes — 
a huge mass of treasure, richer and more accessible than those mines beyond 
the Atlantic which had so often rewarded Spanish chivalry with fabulous 
wealth. And there were men in those galleons who remembered the sack of 
Antwerp, a few years before — men who could tell from personal experience 
how helpless was a great commercial city when once in the clutch of disciplined 
brigands — men w 7 ho, in that dread "fury of Antwerp," had enriched themselves 
in an hour with the accumulations of a merchant's life-time, and who had slain 
fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brides and bridegrooms before each 
others' eyes, until the number of inhabitants butchered in the. blazing streets 
rose to many thousands; and the plunder from palaces and warehouses was 
counted by millions before the sun had set on the "great fury." Those Spaniards 
and Italians and Walloons were now thirsting for more gold, for more blood; 
and as the capital of England was even more wealthy and far more defenseless 
than the commercial metropolis of the Netherlands had been, so it was resolved 
that the London "fury" should yield them a richer harvest than that of Ant- 
werp, at the memory of which the world still shuddered. And these profes- 
sional soldiers had been taught to consider the English as a pacific, delicate, 
eifeminate race, dependent on good living, without experience of war, quickly 
fatigued and discouraged, and even more easily to be plundered and butchered 
than were the excellent burghers of Antwerp. 

And so these southern conquerors looked down from their great galleons 
and upon the English vessels. More than three quarters of them 
were merchantmen. There was no comparison whatever between the relative 
Strength of the fleets. In number they were about equal, being each from one 
hundred and thirty to one hundred and fifty strong; but the Spaniards had 
twiee the tonnage of the English, four times the artillery, and nearly three 
times the number of men. 


As the twilight deepened the moon "became totally ohscured, dark cloud- 
masses spread over the heavens, the sea grew black, distant thunder rolled, and 
the sob of an approaching tempest became distinctly audible. Such indications 
of a westerly gale were not encouraging to those cumbrous vessels, with the 
treacherous quicksands of Flanders under their lee. 

At an hour past midnight it was so dark that it was difficult for the most 
practiced eye to pierce far into the gloom. But a faint dip of oars now struck 
the ears of the Spaniards as they watched from the decks. A few moments 
afterward the sea became suddenly luminous, and six flaming vessels appeared 
at a slight distance, bearing steadily down upon them before the wind and tide. 

There were men in the Armada who had been at the siege of Antwerp, 
only a few years before. They remembered with horror the devil-ships of 
Gianibelli, those floating volcanoes, which had seemed to rend earth and ocean, 
whose explosion had laid so many thousands of soldiers dead at a blow, and 
which had shattered the bridge and floating forts of Farnese as though they 
had been toys of glass. They knew too that the famous engineer was at that 
moment in England. 

In a moment one of those terrible panics which .spread with such conta- 
gious rapidity among large bodies of men seized upon the Spaniards. There 
was a yell throughout the fleet — " The' fire-ships of Antwerp! the fire-ships 
of Antwerp ! " and in an instant every cable was cut, and frantic attempts 
were made by each galleon and galliass to escape what seemed imminent 
destruction. The confusion was beyond description. Four or five of the 
largest ships became entangled with each other; two others were set- on 
fire by the flaming vessels, and were consumed. 

So long as night and darkness lasted the confusion and uproar continued. 
When the Monday morning dawned several of the Spanish vessels lay disabled, 
while the rest of the fleet was seen at a distance of two leagues from Calais, 
driving toward the Flemish coast. The threatened gale had not yet begun to 
blow, but there were fresh squalls from the W. S. W., which to such awkward 
sailers as the Spanish vessels were difficult to contend with. On the other 
hand, the English fleet was all astir and ready to pursue the Spaniards, now 
rapidly drifting into the North Sea 

The invincible Armada, already sorely crippled, was standing N. N. E., 
directly before a fresh topsail breeze from the S. S. W. The English came 
up with them soon after nine o'clock a.m., off Gravelines, and found them 
sailing in a half-moon, the admiral and vice-admiral in the center, and the 
flanks protected by the three remaining galliasses and by the great galleons 
of Portugal. 

The battle lasted six hours long, hot and furious. Keeping within musket- 
range, the well-disciplined English mariners poured broadside after broadside 
against the towering ships of the Armada, which afforded so easy a mark; 
while the Spaniards, on their part, found it impossible, while wasting incredible 
quantities of powder and shot, to inflict any severe damage on their enemies. 
Throughout the action not an English ship was destroyed, not a hundred men 
were killed. On the other hand, all the best ships of the Spaniards were 
riddled through and through, and with masts and yards shattered, sails and 
rigging torn to shreds, and a north-west wind still drifting them toward the 
fatal sand-banks of Holland, they labored heavily in a chopping sea, firing 


wildly, and receiving tremendous punishment at the hands of Howard, Drake, 
Seymour, Winter, and their followers. 

Up to this period the weather, though occasionally threatening, had been 
moderate. During the week which succeeded the eventful night otF Calais 
neither the Armada nor the English ships had been much impeded in their 
maneuvers by storms of heavy seas. But on the following Sunday (14th of 
August) there was a change. The wind shifted again to the south-west, and 
during the whole of that day and the Monday blew a tremendous gale. 
"T was a more violent storm," said Howard, "than was ever seen before at 
this time of the year." 

Over the invincible Armada, last seen by the departing English midway 
between the coasts of Scotland and Denmark, the blackness of night seemed 
suddenly to descend. A mystery hung for a long time over their fate. Dam- 
aged, leaking, without pilots, without a competent commander, the great fleet 
entered that furious storm, and was whirled along the iron crags of Norway, 
and between the savage rocks of Faroe and the Hebrides. In those regions 
of tempest the insulted North wreaked its full vengeance on the insolent 
Spaniards. Disaster after disaster marked their perilous track; gale after 
gale swept them hither and thither, tossing them on sand-banks or shattering 
them against granite cliffs. The coasts of Norway, Scotland, Ireland, were 
strewn with the wrecks of that pompous fleet which claimed the dominion 
of the seas; with the bones of those invincible legions which were to have 
sacked London and made England a Spanish viceroyalty. The invincible 
Armada had not only been vanquished, but annihilated. 


Weary and sickening of the dull debate 

And clang of politics ; — weary of hate, 

And sorrow, and calamity, and crime 

Of daily history told us in our time ; — 

"Weary of wrong that reared its hydra head, 

And hiss'd from all its mouths ; dispirited 

With rich man's apathy to poor man's hurt, 

And poor men's ignorance of their own desert, 

And for a moment hopeless of mankind 

And the great cause nearest to my mind — 

Progress — the dream of poet and of sage — 

I leaned back in my chair, and dropp'd the page, 

Diurnal, — filled with all the misery, 

And fell asleep, — if sleeping it could be, 

When, in their natural sequence in the brain, 

Thought followed thought, more palpable and plain 

Than when I waked ; when words took music-voice, 

And all my being inly did rejoice. 

And what I saw I sang of at the time 

With ease unparalleled by waking rhyme, 

And to this tune, which, many a day since then, 

A haunting music, has come back again. 


Oh, the golden — city, 

Shining far — away ! 

With its domes — and steeples tall, 

And the sunlight — over all ; — 

With the waters of a bay 

Kippling gently at its feet — 

Oh, the golden — city, — so beautiful to seel— 

It shall open wide its portals, 

And I '11 tell you if it be 

The city of the happy, — 

The city of the/ree. 

Oh, the glorious city, 

Shining far away! 

In its boundaries — every man 

Makes his happiness — a plan, 

That he studies night — and day, 

Till he thinks it not alone, 

Like his property, — his own — 

Oh the glorious city, — so beautiful to see !— - 

But spreads it round about him ; 

Till all are bless' d as he; 

His mind — an inward sunshine, 

And bright — eternally. 

Oh, the splendid city, 

Gleaming far away! 

Every man by love possess'd 

Has a priest within his breast, 

And whene'er he kneels to pray 

Never breathes a thought unkind — 

Against men of other mind — 

Oh, the glorious city, — so beautiful to see ! — 

But knows that God — eternal 

Will shower all blessings free 

On hearts that live to love Him, 

And cling — to charity. 

Oh, the gorgeous city, 

Shining far away ! — 

Neither misery nor crime, 

Nor the wrongs of ancient time, 

Nor the kingly lust of — sway 

Ever come within its wall 

To degrade — or to inthrall — 

Oh, the glorious city, — so beautiful to see !— 

But peace and love — and knowledge, 

The civilizing Three, 

Still prove by good that has been 

The better that may be. 



Thus dream' d I, to this rhyme, or something near, 

But far more copious, — musical, — and clear. 

And when I wakened, still my fancy ran. 

'T was not all dream ; — and that large hopes for man 

"Were not such idle visions as the wise, 

In days like ours, should heedlessly despise. 

I thought that love might be religion yet, 

Not form alone, but soul and substance met, — 

The guide, the light, the glory of the mind, 

Th' electric link uniting all mankind. 

That if men loved, and made their love — the law, 

All — else would follow ; — more than ever saw 

Poet or prophet in the utmost light 

Of heavenly glory opening on his sight. 

But dream — or no dream, take it as it came, 

It gave me — hope; — it may give you the same; 

And as bright hopes make the intention strong, 

Take heart with me, and muse upon my — song. 

XXI.— THE WING. Michelet. 

Wings ! wings ! to sweep 

O'er mountain high and valley deep. 

Wings, that my heart may rest 

In the radiant morning's breast. 

Wings to hover free 

O'er the dawn — impurpled sea. 

Wings ! 'bove life to soar, 

And beyond death for evermore. 

It is the cry of the whole earth, of the world, of all life ; it is that which 
every species of animals or plants utters in a hundred diverse tongues — the 
voice which issues from the very rock and the inorganic creation : " Wings ! 
we seek for wings, and the power of flight and motion ! " Yea, the most inert 
bodies rush greedily into the chemical transformations which will make them 
part and parcel of the current of the universal life, and bestow upon them the 
organs of movement and fermentation. 

Yea, the vegetables, fettered by their immovable roots, expand their secret 
loves toward a winged existence, and commend themselves to the winds, the 
waters, the insects, in quest of a life beyond their narrow limits — of that gift 
of flight which nature has refused to them. 

We contemplate pityingly those rudimentary animals, the unau and the ai, 
sad and suffering images of man, which can not advance a step without a 
groan — sloths or tardigrades. The names by which we identify them we might 
justly reserve for ourselves. If slowness be relative to the desire of move- 
ment, to the constantly futile effort to progress, to advance, to act, the true 
tardigrade is man. His faculty of dragging himself from one point of the 
earth to another, the ingenious instruments which he has recently invented in 
aid of this faculty — all this does not lessen his adhesion to the earth; he is not 
the less firmly chained to it by the tyranny of gravitation. I see upon earth 
but one order of created beings which enjoy the power of ignoring or beguiling, 
by their freedom and swiftness of motion, this universal sadness of impotent 


aspiration. I mean those beings which belong to earth, so to speak, only 
by the tips of their wings; which the air itself cradles and supports, most 
frequently without being otherwise connected with them than by guiding 
them at their need and their caprice. 

A life of ease, yet sublime ! With what a glance of scorn may the weakest 
bird regard the strongest and swiftest of quadrupeds — a tiger, a lion! How it 
may smile to see them in their utter powerlessness bound, fastened to the earth 
which they terrify with vain and useless roarings — with the nocturnal wailings 
that bear witness to the bondage of the so-called king of animals, fettered, as 
we ail are, in that inferior existence which hunger and gravitation equally 
prepare for us. 

Oh, the fatality of the appetites ! the fatality of motion which compels us 
to drag our unwilling limbs along the earth! Implacable heaviness which 
binds each of our feet to the dull, rude element wherein death will hereafter 
resolve us, and says: "Son of the earth, to the earth thou belongest! A mo- 
ment released from its bosom, thou shalt lie there henceforth for ages." Do 
not let us inveigh against nature. It is assuredly the sign that we inhabit a 
world still in its first youth — still in a state of barbarism — a world of essay 
and apprenticeship, in the grand series of stars — one of the elementary stages 
of the sublime imitation. This planet is the world of a child ; and thou, thou 
art a child. From this lower school thou shalt be emancipated also. Thy 
wings shall be majestic and powerful. Thou shalt win and deserve while 
here, by the sweat of thy brow, a step forward in liberty. 

Let us make an experiment. Ask of the bird while still in the egg what 
he would wish to be. Give him the option. Wilt thou be- a man, and share 
in that royalty of the globe which men have won by art and toil? No, he 
will immediately reply. Without calculating the immense exertion, the labor, 
the sweat, the care, the life of slavery by which we purchase sovereignty, he 
will have but one word to say: "A king myself by birth of space and light, 
why should I abdicate when man, in his loftiest ambitions, in his highest 
aspirations after happiness and freedom, dreams of becoming a bird and 
taking unto himself wings?" 

It is in his sunniest time, his first and richest existence, in his day-dreams 
of youth, that man has sometimes the good fortune to forget that he is a man, 
a slave to hard fate, and chained to earth. Behold yonder him who flies 
abroad, who hovers, who dominates over the world, who swims in the sun- 
beam! He enjoys the ineffable felicity of embracing at a glance an infinity 
of things which yesterday he could only see one by one. Obscure enigma 
of detail suddenly made luminous to him who perceives its unity! To see the 
world beneath one's self, to embrace it, to love it! How divine, how lofty a 
dream ! Do not wake me, I pray you, never wake me ! But what is this ? 
Here again are day, uproar, and labor; the harsh iron hammer, the ear-piercing 
bell with its voice of steel dethrone and dash me headlong ; my wings are rent. 
Dull earth, I fall to thee ! Bruised and bent I return to the plow. 

When at the close of the last century man formed the daring idea of 
giving himself up to the winds, of mounting in the air without rudder or 
oar or means of guidance, he proclaimed aloud that at length he had secured 
his pinions — had eluded nature and conquered gravitation. Cruel and tragical 
catastrophes gave the lie to this ambition. He studied the economy of the 


bird's wing; ho undertook to imitate it. Rudely enough he counterfeited its 
inimitable mechanism. We saw with terror from a column of a hundred feet 
high a poor human bird armed with wings dart into air, wrestle with it, and 
dash headlong into atoms. The gloomy and fatal machine in its laborious 
complexity was a sorry imitation of that admirable arm (far superior to the 
human arm), that system of muscles which co-operate among themselves in 
so vigorous and lively a movement. Disjointed and relaxed, the human wing 
lacked especially that all-powerful muscle which connects the shoulders to the 
chest, and communicates its impetus to the thunderous flight of the falcon. 
The instrument acts so directly on the mover, the oar on the rower, and unites 
with him so perfectly, that the martinet, the frigate-bird, sweeps along at the 
rate of eighty leagues an hour — five or six times swifter than our most rapid 
railway trains, outstripping the hurricane, and with no rival but the lightning. 
But even if our poor imitators had exactly imitated the wing, nothing would 
have been accomplished. The}- then had copied the form, but not the internal 
structure. They thought that the bird's power of ascension lay in its flight 
alone, forgetting the secret auxiliary which nature conceals in the plumage 
and bones. The mystery, the true marvel, lies in the faculty with which she 
endows the bird of rendering itself light or heavy at its will, of admitting 
more or less of air into its expressly constructed reservoirs. Would it grow 
light, it inflates its dimensions while diminishing its relative weight. By this 
means it spontaneously ascends in a medium heavier than itself. To descend 
or drop it contracts itself, grows thin and small, cutting through the air which 
supported and raised it in its former heavy condition. Here lay the error, the 
cause of man's fatal mistake. He assumed that the bird was a ship, not a bal- 
loon. He imitated the wing only; but the wing, however skillfully imitated, 
if not conjoined with this internal force, is but a certain means of destruction. 
But this faculty, this rapid inhalation or expulsion of air, of swimming with a 
ballast variable at pleasure, whence does it proceed? From a unique, unheard- 
of power of respiration. The man who should inhale a similar quantity of air 
at once would be suffocated. The bird's lung, elastic and powerful, quaffs it 
abundantly into his bones, into his aerial cells. Each inspiration is renewed 
second after second with tremendous rapidity. The blood, ceaselessly vivified 
with fresh air, supplies each muscle with that inexhaustible energy which no 
other being possesses, and which belongs only to the elements. The bird does 
not need to seek the air that he may be reinvigorated by touching it; the air 
seeks and flows into him. It incessantly kindles within him the burning fires 
of life. It is this and not the wing which is so marvelous. Take the pinions 
of the condor, and follow in its track when from the summit of the Andes 
and their Siberian glaciers it swoops down upon the glowing shore of Peru, 
traversing in a minute all the temperatures and all the climates of the globe, 
breathing at one breath the frightful mass of air — scorched, frozen, it matters 
not. You would reach the earth stricken as by lightning. 

The smallest bird in this matter shames the strongest quadruped. Place, 
Toussenel, a chained lion in a balloon and his harsh voice will be lost in 
space. Far more powerful in voice and respiration the little lark mounts up- 
ward, trilling its song, and makes itself heard when it can be seen no longer. 
Its light and joyous strain, uttered without fatigue and costing nothing, seems 
the bliss of an invisible spirit which would fain console the earth. 


Strength makes joy. The happiest of beings is the bird, because it feels 
itself strong beyond the limits of its action, because cradled, sustained by the 
breath of heaven, it floats, it rises without effort like — a dream. The boundless 
strength, the exalted faculty — obscure among inferior beings, in the bird clear 
and vital — of deriving at will its vigor from the maternal source, of drinking 
life in at full flood, is a divine intoxication. 

The tendency of every human being — a tendency not arrogant, not im- 
pious — is to liken itself to nature, the great mother ; to fashion itself after her 
image; to crave a share of the unwearied wings with which Eternal Love 
broods over the world. 

Human tradition is fixed in this direction. Man does not wish to be a 
man, but an angel, a winged deit}\ The winged genii of Persia suggests the 
cherubims of Judea. Greece endows her Psyche with wings, and discovers 
the true name of the soul — aspiration. The soul has preserved her pinions; 
has passed at one flight through the shadowy middle age, and constantly 
increases in heavenly longings. More spotless and more glowing, she gives 
utterance to a prayer breathed in the very depths of the prophetic ardor : " Oh, 
that I were a bird ! " 

"Woman never doubts but her offspring will become an angel. She has 
seen it so in her dreams. 

Dreams or realities? Winged visions, raptures of the night which we 
shall weep so bitterly in the morning! If you really were! If indeed you 
lived! If we had lost some of the causes of our regret! If from stars to 
stars, reunited and launched on an eternal flight, we all performed in com- 
panionship a happy pilgrimage through the illimitable goodness! 

At times one is apt to believe it. Something whispers us that these dreams 
are not all dreams, but glimpses of a world of truth — momentary flashes re- 
vealing through these lower clouds certain promises to be hereafter fulfilled — 
w r hile the pretended reality it is that should be stigmatized as a foul delusion. 

XXII.— THE THUNDEE-STOEM. George D. Prentice. 

I never was a man of feeble courage. There are few scenes of either human 
or elemental strife upon which I have not looked with a brow of daring. I 
have stood in front of the battle when the swords were gleaming and circling 
around me like fiery serpents in the air. I have seen these things with a 
swelling soul that knew not, that recked not of danger. 

But there is something in the thunder's voice that makes me tremble like a 
child. I have tried to overcome this unmanly weakness. I have called pride 
to my aid; I have sought for moral courage in the lessons of philosophy; but 
the effort availed me nothing. At the first low moaning of the distant cloud 
my heart shrinks and dies within me. 

My involuntary dread of thunder had its origin in an incident that occurred 
when I was a boy of ten years. I had a little cousin — a girl of the same age 
with myself — who had been a constant companion of my youth. Strange that 
after the lapse of many years that occurrence should be so familiar to me. I 
can see the bright young creature, her eyes flashing like beautiful gems, her free 
locks streaming as in joy upon the rising gale, and her cheeks glowing like 
rubies through a wreath of transparent snow. Her voice had the melody and 


joyoosness of a bird's; and when she bounded over the wooded hill or fresh 
green valley, shouting a glad answer to every voice of nature, and clapping her 
little hands in the ecstasy of young existence, she looked as if breaking away, 
like a free nightingale, from the earth, and going off where all things are 
beautiful like her. 

It was a morning in the middle of August. The little girl had been passing 
some days at my father's house, and she was now to return home. Her path 
lay across the fields, and gladly I became the companion of her walk. I never 
knew a summer morning more beautiful and still. Only one little cloud was 
visible, and that seemed as pure and white and peaceful as if it had been the 
incense-smoke of some burning censer of the skies. The leaves hung silent in 
the woods, the waters in the bay had forgotten their undulations, the flowers 
were bending their heads as if dreaming of rainbow and dew, and the whole 
atmosphere was of such a soft and luxurious sweetness that it seemed a cloud 
of roses scattered down by the hands of Peri from the far-off garden of 
Paradise. The green earth and the blue sea lay around in their boundlessness, 
and the peaceful sky bent over and blessed them. 

The little creature at my side was in a delirium of happiness, and her clear 
sweet voice came ringing upon the air as often as she heard the tones of a 
favorite bird or found some strange and lovely flower in her frolic wanderings. 
The unbroken and almost supernatural stillness of the day continued until 
noon ; then for the first time the indications of an approaching storm became 
manifest. On the summit of a mountain, at the distance of about a mile, the 
folds of a dark cloud became suddenly visible, and at the same instant a hollow 
roar came down upon the winds, as if it had been the sound of waves in a 
rocky cavern. The clouds rolled out like a banner unfolded upon the air, 
but still the atmosphere was as calm, the leaves as motionless as before, and 
there was not even a quiver among the sleeping waters to tell of the coming 
hurricane. To escape the tempest was impossible. As the only resort we fled 
to an oak that stood at the foot of a tall and rugged precipice. Here we stood 
and gazed almost breathlessly upon the clouds marshaling themselves like 
bloody giants in the sky. The thunder was not frequent, but every burst was 
so fearful that the young creature who stood by me shut her eyes convul- 
sively, and clung with desperate strength to my arms, and shrieked as if her 
heart would break. 

A few minutes and the storm was upon us. During the height of its fury 
the little girl lifted her finger toward the precipice that towered over us. I 
looked and saw there a purple light; and instantly the clouds opened, the rocks 
tottered to their foundations, a roar like the groan of the universe filled the 
air, and I felt myself blinded and thrown I know not whither. How long I 
remained insensible I can not tell, but when consciousness returned the violence 
of the tempest was abating, the roar of the winds was dying in the tree-tops, 
and the deep tones of the thunder-clouds came in faint murmurs from tho 
eastern hills. 

I arose and looked tremblingly and almost deliriously around. She was 
there, the dear idol of my infant love, stretched out upon the green earth. 
After a moment of irresolution I went up a-nd looked upon her. The handker- 
chief upon her neck was slightly rent, and a single dark spot upon her bosom 
told where the pathway of death had been. At first I clasped her to my breast 


with a cry of agony, and then laid her down and gazed upon her face with 
feelings almost of calmness. Her bright disheveled hair clustered sweetly 
around her brow; the look of terror had faded from her lips and infant smiles 
were pictured there; the rose-tinge upon her cheeks was as lovely as in life, 
and as I pressed them upon my own the fountain of tears was opened, and I 
wept as if my heart were waters. I have but a dim recollection of what 
followed; I only know that I remained weeping and motionless till the coming- 
twilight, and I was taken tenderly by the hand and led away where I saw the 
countenances of parents and sisters. 

Many years have gone by on the wings of light and shadow, but the scenes 
I have portrayed still come over me at times with a terrible distinctness. The 
oak yet stands at the base of the precipice, but its limbs are black and dead, 
and the hollow trunk, looking up to the sky as if "calling to the clouds for 
drink," is an emblem of rapid and noiseless decay. 

A year ago I visited the spot, and the thought of by-gone years came 
mournfully back to me. I thought of the little innocent being who fell at my 
side, like some beautiful tree of spring rent up by the whirlwind in the midst 
of blossoming. But I remembered — and. oh, there was joy in the memory — 
that she had gone where the lightnings slumber in the folds of the rainbow- 
cloud, and where the sunlight waters are broken only by the storm-breath of 

The following selections from Shakespeare and other poets are 
marked for emphasis and rhetorical pauses. 


Wolsey. Nay, then, farewell ! 
I have touched — the highest point — of all my greatness: 
And, — (from the full meridian — of my glory,) 
I haste — (now) to my setting. I — shall fall — 
Like a bright exhalation — in the evening, 
And no man — see me — more! 
Farewell, a long farewell, — to all — my greatness I 
This — is the state — of man : To-day — he puts forth — 
The tender leaves — of hopes, to-morrow — blossoms. 
And bears his blushing honors — thick upon him : 
The third day — comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And — when he thinks, — {good — easy man,) full surely— 
His greatness — is a ripening, — nips — his root, 
And then — he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
(Like little — wanton boys — th't swim — on bladders,) 
This many summers — in a sea — of glory ; 
But— far — beyond my depth : my Ai^A-blown pride 
(At length) broke under me ; and now — has left me, 
( Weary, — and old — with service,) to the mercy — 
Of a rude stream, — th't must — (forever) hide me. 
Vain pomp — and glory — of this world, I hate ye ; 
I feel — my heart — new open'd. Oh, how — wretched — 


Is that— poor man — th't hangs — on princes 1 — favors I 
There is — betwixt that smile — we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect — of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs — and fears, — than wars — or women— have ; 
And — when he— falls, — he falls — like Lucifer, 

Never — to hope — again! \Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 

Why, how now, — Cromwell? 

Cromwell. I have no power — to speak, sir. 

Wol. What! amaz'd — at my misfortunes? can thy spirit — wonder — 
A great man — should decline ? Nay, an' you — weep, 
I am— fallen — indeed! 

Crom. How does your grace ? 

Wol. Why,— well; 

Never — so truly happy, — my good Cromwell. 
I know myself — now: and I feel — {within me) — 
A peace — above all — earthly dignities, 
A still — and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
I humbly — thank his grace, and — from these shoulders, 
(These ruined pillars,) out of pity, taken 
A load — would sink — a navy, — too much honor : 
Oh, 'tis a burden, — [Cromwell,) His a burden — 
Too heavy — for a man — th't hopes — for heaven ! 

Crom. I am glad your grace — has made that right use of it. 

Wol. I hope I have: I am able — (now,) — methinks, — 
(Out of a fortitude — of soul I feel,) 
To endure more miseries, — and greater — far, 
Than my weak-hearted enemies — dare ofier. 
What news — abroad? 

Crom. The heaviest — and the worst — 

Is your displeasure — with the king. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is — that Sir Thomas More — is chosen 
Lord chancellor — in your place. 

Wol. That's — somewhat — sudden; 

But—h.e 's a learned man. May he continue — 
Long — in his highness' favor, — and do justice — 
For truth's sake, — and his conscience; th't his bones, 
(When he has run his course, and sleeps — in blessings,) 
May have a tomb — of orphans' tears — wept on them ! 
What — more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer — is returned — with welcome, 

Installed — lord archbishop — of Canterbury. 

Wol. That's — news — indeed! 

Crom. Last, — th't the lady Anne. 

(Whom the king — hath — in secrecy — long married,) 
This day — was viewed — (in open,) as his queen, — 
Going to chapel; and — the voice is — {now) — 
Only — about her coronation! 

Wol. There — was the weight — th't pulled me down. Cromwell! 


The king — has gone beyond me ; — all my glories — 

In that one — woman — I have lost — for ever : 

No sun — shall ever — usher forth — mine honors, — 

Or gild — [again) — the noble troops — th't waited 

Upon my smiles. Go ! get thee— from me, Cromwell ; 

I — am a poor — fallen man, — unworthy — {now) 

To be thy lord — and master: seek the king ; 

{That sun, — I pray, — may never set !) I have told him— 

What — and how true thou art : he — will advance thee ; 

Some little memory — of me — will stir him, 

(I know — his noble nature,) not to let 

Thy hopeful service — perish — too. Good Cromwell, — 

Neglect him not ; make use — now, — and provide 

For thine own — future safety. 

Orom. O my lord! 

Must I — then — leave you ? must I needs forego — 
So good, — so noble, — and so true a master ? 
Bear ivitness, — all — th't have not hearts of iron, — 
With what a sorrow — Cromwell — leaves his lord! 
The — king — shall have my service ; but my prayers 
For ever and for ever shall be yours ! 

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think — to shed a tear — 
In all — my miseries ; but thou — hast forced me — ■ 
(Out of thy honest truth) to play the woman. 
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far — hear me — {Cromwell:) 
And when — I am forgotten, — (as I shall be,) 
And sleep — in dull — cold marble, — where no mention 
Of me — more must be heard of, say, — I taught thee; — 
Say — Wolsey, — (th't once — trod — the ways of glory, — 
And sounded — all the depths — and shoals of honor,) — 
Found thee — a way — (out of his wreck) — to rise in : 
A sure — and safe one, — though thy master — missed it. 
Mark — but my fall — and that — that ruined me ! 
Cromwell, I charge thee, — fling away — ambition : 
By that sin — fell — the angels ; how can man — then,— 
(The image — of his Maker,) hope — to win by 't? 
Love thyself — last; cherish — those hearts — th't hate thee: 
Corruption — wins not — more — than honesty. 
Still — (in thy right hand) — carry gentle peace, — 
To silence — envious tongues. Be just — and fear not. 
Let all the ends — thou aim'st at — be thy country's, — 
Thy Gods, — and truth's: then — if — thou falVst, — (O Cromwell!) 
Thou fall'st — a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; 

And, {Prithee, — lead me in:) 

There, — take an inventory — of all I have, — 

(To the last penny ;) 't is the king's: my robe, — 

And my integrity — to heaven, — is all — 

I dare {now) — call my own. O Cromwell, — (Cromwell!) 

Had I — but served my God — with half — the zeal — 


I served my king, — he— would not (in mine age)— 
Have left me — {naked) — to mine enemies! 

Cram. Good sir, — have patience. 

Wol. So — I have. Farewell — 

The hopes — of court! my hopes — (in heaven) do dwell. [Exeunt. 


Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you — 
Against the general enemy Ottoman. 

I did not see you; welcome gentle signior: [To Brabantio. 
We lack'd your counsel — and your help — to-night. 

Brabantio. So — did /—yours. Good your grace, pardon me; 
Neither my place, nor aught — I heard of business, — 
Hath raised me — from my bed; nor — doth the general care 
Take hold on me ; for my particular grief — 
Is of so Jfood-g&te — and o'erbearing nature — 
Th't it engluts — and swallows — other sorrows, 
And it is still — itself. 

Duke. Why? what's the matter? 

Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter ! 

Senators. Dead ? 

Bra. Ay — to me ; 

She is abused, — stoVn from me, — and corrupted — 
By spells — and medicines — bought of mountebanks ; 
For nature — so preposterously to err, 
Being not deficient, — blind, — or lame of sense, — 
Sans witchcraft — could not — 

Duke. Whoe'er he be th't (in this foul proceeding) 
Hath thus beguiled your daughter — of herself, — 
And you — of her, — the bloody book of law — 
You shall yourself read — in the bitter letter, 
After your own sense : yea, though our proper son 
Stood in your action. 

Bra. Humbly — I thank your grace. 

Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, — (it seems,) 
Your special mandate, (for the state affairs,) 
Hath hither brought. 

Duke and Sen. We are very — sorry for it. 

Duke. What — (in your own part) can you say to this? [To Othello. 

Bra. Nothing, but this — is so. 

Othello. Most potent, — grave, and reverend signiors, 
My very noble — and approved — good masters, — 
Th't I have ta'en away — this old man's daughter — 
It is most true; true — I have married her: 
The very head — and front — of my offending — 
Hath this — extent, — no more. Rude am I — in my speech, 
And little bless' d — with the soft phrase of peace; 
For — since these arms of mine — had seven years' pith, 


(Till now — some nine moons wasted,) they have used 

Their dearest action — in the tented field; 

And little — of this great world — can I speak — 

More — than pertains to feats — of broil — and battle; 

And — {therefore) little — shall I grace my cause — 

In speaking — for myself. Yet, (by your gracious patience,) 

I will a round — unvarnished tale deliver — 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, — what charms. 

What conjuration, — and what mighty magic, 

(For such proceeding — I am charged withal,) 

I won — his daughter with. 

Bra. A maiden — never bold; 

Of spirit — so still — and quiet — th't her motion 
Blush'd at herself ; and she, — (in spite of nature, 
Of years, — of country, — credit, — every thing,) — 
To fall in love — with what she feared — to look on I 
It is & judgment — maim'd — and most imperfect 
Th't will confess — perfection — so — could err — 
Against all rules of nature ; and must be driven — 
To find out practices — of cunning hell, 
Why this should be. I therefore — vouch again 
Th't with some mixtures — [powerful — o'er the blood,) 
Or with some dram — conjured — to this effect, 
He wrought upon her. 

Duke. To vouch this — is no proof \ 

Without more wider — and more overt test — 
Than these — thin habits, and poor likelihoods 
Of modern seeming, — do prefer against him. 

Sen. But, — Othello, — speak : — § 

Did you, — (by indirect — and/07-ced courses,) 
Subdue — and poison — this young maid's affections^ 
Or — came it — by request, and such fair question — 
As soul — to soul — affordeth? 

Oth. I do beseech you — 

Send for the lady — to the Sagittary, — 
And let hei — speak of me — before her father : 
If you do find me foul — in her report, 
The trust, the office — I do hold of you 
Not only take away, — but let your sentence — 
Even fall upon my life. 

Duke. Eetch Desdemona hither ! 

Oth. Ancient, — conduct them ; you — best know the place. 

[Exeunt Iago, etc. 
And — till she come, as truly — as to heaven — 
I do confess — the vices — of my blood, — 
So justly — to your grave ears — I '11 present — 
How I did thrive — in this fair lady's love, 
And she — in mine. 

Duke. Say it,— Othello. 


Oth. Her father — loved me; oft invited ma] 
Still — questioned me — the story — of my life, 
From year — to year ; — the battles, — sieges,— fortunes,— 
Th't I have pass'd. 

I ran it through, — even — from my boyish days, — 
To the very moment — th't he bade me tell it. 
Wherein — I spake of most disastrous chances; — 
Of moving accidents — by flood — and field; 
Of AmV-breadth 'scapes — i' the imminent deadly breach; 
Of being taken — by the insolent foe — 
And sold — to slave?y; — of my redemption thence, 
And portance. In my traveler's history, 
( Wherein — of antres vast — and deserts idle, — 
Rough quarries, — rocks, — and hills — whose heads — touch heaven, 
It was my hint to speak, ) — such — was my process ; 
And of the Cannibals — that each other eat, 
The Anthropophagi, — and men — whose heads — 
Do grow — beneath their shoulders. These things to hear— 
"Would Desdemona — seriously — incline : 
But still — the house affairs — would draw her thence ; 
Which — ever — as she could with haste — dispatch — 
She'd come again, — and — (with a greedy ear) 
Devour up my discourse: which — I — [observing,) 
Took — once — a pliant hour; and found good means — 
To draw from her — a p>rayer — (of earnest heart) — 
That I would all my pilgrimage — dilate, 
"Whereof — by parcels — she had something heard, 
But not intentively : I did consent, 
And often — did beguile her — of her tears, 
When I did speak — of some distressful stroke — 
That my youth suffer'd. My story — being done, 
She gave me — for my pains — a world of sighs : 
She swore, — In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 
'T was pitiful, — 't was wondrous — pitiful : 
She wish'd — she had not heard it; yet — she wish'd — 
Th't Heaven — had made her — such a man : she thank' d me ; 
And bade me, — if I had a friend — that loved her, 
I should but teach him — how to tell my story — 
And that — would woo her. Upon this hint — I spake; 
She — loved me — for the dangers I had pass'd; 
And J — loved her — th't she did pity them. 
This — only — is the witchcraft — I have used. 
Here — comes the lady, — let her — witness it. 

[Enter Desdemona, Iago, and attendants. 

Duke. I think — this tale — would win my daughter too. 
Good Brabantio, — 

Take up — this mangled matter — at the best : 
Men — do their broken weapons — rather use — 
Than their bare hands. 


Bra. I pray you — hear her speak ; 
If she confess — that she — was half the wooer, 
Destruction — on my head, — if my had blame 
Light on the man I Come hither, (gentle mistress:) 
Do you perceive (in all — this noble company) 
Where most — you owe obedience ? 

Des. My noble father, 

I do perceive— here — a divided duty: 
To you — I am bound — for life, — and education ; 
My life — and education — both do learn me — 
How — to respect you ; you — are the lord — of duty ; — 
J am — (hitherto) — your daughter : But — here 's — my husband; 
And so much duty — as my mother — show'd 
To you, — (preferring you — hefore her father,) 
So much — I challenge — that I — may profess 
Due to the Moor, my lord. 

Bra. God — he with you ! — I have done. 

Please it — your grace, — on — to the state affairs : 
I had rather — to adopt a child — than get it. — 
Come hither, Moor : 

I here — do give thee that — (with all my heart) 
"Which, — (but thou hast — already,) with all my heart—' 
I would keep from thee. For your sake, — (jewel,) — 
I am glad — at soul — I have no other child ; 
For thy escape — would teach me tyranny, 
To hang clogs on them. I have done, — my lord. 

Duke. Let me speak — like yourself, and lay a sentence — 
"Which, (as a grise, or step,) — may help these lovers. 
"When remedies — are past, — the griefs — are ended, 
By seeing the worst, — which late — on hopes — depended. 
To mourn a mischief — th't is past — and gone 
Is the next way — to draw new mischief on. 
What can not he preserved — when fortune takes, — 
Patience — her injury — a mockery — makes. 
The robVd — that smiles steals something — from the thief; 
He — robs himself — th't spends a bootless grief. 

XXV.— CLAEENCE'S DEEAM. Shakespeare. 

Brakenbury. "Why looks your grace — so heavily — to-day? 

Clarence. Oh ! I have passed — a miserable night, 
So full — of ugly sights, — of ghastly dreams, 
That, — (as I am a Christian — faithful man,) 
I would not spend — another such a night, 
Though 't were to buy a world — of happy days ; — 
So full — of dismal terror — was the time ! 

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. 

Clar. Methought — th't I had broken from the Tower, 
And was embark 'd — to cross to Burgundy ; 


And (in my company) my brother — Gloster, — 

Who (from my cabin) tempted me to walla 

Upon the hatches : thence we looked toward England, 

And cited up — a thousand — fearful times, 

(During the wars of York — and Lancaster,) 

Th't had befallen us. As we pass'd along — 

Upon the giddy footing — of the hatches — 

Methought — th't Gloster — stumbled; and, (in falling,) 

Struck me, — (th't sought to stay him,) — overboard, 

Into the tumbling billows — of the main. 

Heaven I Methought — what pain it is — to drown I 
"What dreadful noise of waters — in my ears ! 
What sights — of ugly death — within my eyes ! 

1 thought — I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; 
Ten thousand men, th't fishes — gnaw'd upon; 
Wedges of gold, — great anchors, — heaps of pearl, — 
Inestimable stones, — unvalued jewels, 

All — scattered — in the bottom — of the sea ! 

Some — lay in dead men's skulls; and, (in those holes — 

Where eyes — once did inhabit,) there — were crept, — 

(As 't were, in scorn of eyes,) reflecting gems, — 

Th't woo'd the slimy bottom — of the deep, — 

And mocKd — the dead bones — that lay scattered by. 

Brak. Had you such leisure, — (in the time of death,) 
To gaze — upon the secrets — of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had;, and often — did I strive 
To yield the ghost : but still — the envious flood — 
Kept in my soul, — and would not — let it forth — 
To seek the empty, — vast, — and wandering air; 
But smothered it — within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst — to belch it — in the sea. 

Brak. AwaKd you not — with this sore agony ? 

Clar. Oh, — no ! my dream — was lengthened — after life ; 
Oh ! then — began the tempest — to my soul ! 
Who pass'd — (methought) — the melancholy flood, — 
With that grim ferryman — (which poets write of,) — 
Unto the kingdom — of perpetual night I 
The first — th't there — did gre3t my stranger soul — 
Was my great father-in-law, — (renowned Warwick,) 
Who cried aloud, — 'What scourge — for perjury — 
Can this dark monarchy — afford false Clarence ? ' 
And so — he — vanished. Then — came — (wandering by) — 
A shadow — like an angel, — with bright hair — 
Dabbled in blood: — and he — squeaked out — aloud, — 
' Clarence — is come! falser-fleeting, — perjured Clarence, — 
Th't stabbed me — in the field of Tewksbury ; 
Seize on him, furies ! — take him — to your torments V 
With that — {methought) — a legion — of foul fiends — 
Environed me about, — and howled — (in mine ears) — 


Such hideous cries, — th't, (with the very noise,) 
I — [trembling)— waked, — and — (for a season — after) 
I could not believe — but th't I was in hell ! 
Such terrible impression — made my dream. 

Brak. No marvel, — (my lord,) th't it affrighted you: 
I promise you — /—am afraid — to hear you tell it. 

Clar. O [Brakenbury !) I have done — those things — 
("Which now — give evidence — against my soul,) 
For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me ! 

God! if my deep prayers — can not appease thee, 
But — thou wilt be avenged — on my misdeeds, 

Yet — execute — thy wrath — on me alone : 

Oh ! spare — my guiltless wife, — and my poor children ! 

1 prithee, — [Brakenbury,) stay — by me ; 

My soid — is heavy, — and I fain — would sleep. 

Brak. I will, — (my lord;) God — give your grace — good rest. . 
Sorroio — breaks seasons — and reposing hours, — 
Makes the night — morning — and the noo?itide — night. 
Princes — have but their titles — for their glories, — 
An outward — honor — for an inward — toil, 
And — (for unfelt — imagination) — 
They often — feel a world — of restless cares ! 
So th't between their titles — and low name 
There 's nothing — differs — but the outward — fame ! 

XXVI.— EOMEO AND JULIET. Shakespeare. 

Romeo. He— jests — at scars, th't never felt a wound. 

[Juliet appears at a window. 
But — soft ! what light — through yonder window breaks ? 
It is the east, and Juliet — is the sun ! 
Arise, — (fair sun,) and kill — the envious moon, 
Who is already — sick — and pale — with grief, 
That thou, — (her maid,) art far more fair — than she: 
Be not — her maid, — since she — is envious ; 
Her vestal livery — is but sick — and green, 
And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. 
It is my lady ! Oh, it is my love ! 
Oh! th't she knew — she were! 
She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? 
Her eye — discourses : I will answer it. 
I am too bold, — 't is not to me she speaks : 
Two — of the fairest stars —in all the heaven, 
(Having some business,) do entreat her eyes — 
To twinkle — in their spheres — till they return. 
What — if her eyes — were there, — they — in her head ? 
The brightness — of her cheek — would shame those stars, 
As daylight — doth a lamp; her eye in heaven — 


Would — (through the airy region) stream so bright, 
Th't birds would sing, and think — it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek — upon her hand! 
Oh ! th't / — were a glove — upon that hand, 
Th't I might touch — that cheek! 

Juliet \sighing.~\ Ah! me! 

Bom. She speaks ! 

Oh ! speak again, — bright angel ! for thou— art 
As glorious to this night, — (being o'er my head,) 
As a winged messenger — of heaven — 
Unto the wAife-upturned, wondring eyes — 
Of mortals — th't fall back — to gaze on him — 
When he bestrides — the Zazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails — upon the bosom — of the air! 

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore — art thou — Romeo ? 
Deny thy father — and refuse thy name : 
Or, — (if thou wilt not,) be but sworn — my love, — 
And I '11 no longei — be a Capidet. 

Rom. [aside.'] Shall I hear more, — or shall I speak at this ? 

Jul. 'T is but thy name — th't is my enemy; — 
Thou art thyself, — though — not a Montague. 
What's Montague? it is — nor hand, — nor foot, — 
Nor arms, — nor face, — nor any other part — 
Belonging — to a man. Oh, be some other name ! 
What 's — in a name ? that — which we call — a rose 
By any other name — would smell as sweet: 
So — Romeo would, — (were he not Romeo — calVd,) 
Retain — that dear perfection — which he owes, 
Without — that title. Romeo, doff thy name, 
And — for that name, — (which is no part of thee,} 
Take all myself. 

Rom. I take thee — at thy word : 

Call me — but love, — and I'll be new baptized; 
Henceforth — I never will be Romeo. 

Jul. What man — art thou — th't, [thus — bescreen'd by night,) 
So stumblest — on my counsel ? 

Rom. By a name — 

I know not — how — to tell thee — who I am : 
My name, — (dear saint,) is hateful — to myself, 
Because — it is an enemy — to thee; 
Had I — it written — I would tear the word. 

Jul. My ears — have not yet — drunk a hundred words — 
Of thy tongues utterance, — yet — I know — the sound: 
Art thou — not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Rom. Neither, — (fair maid,) if either — thee dislike. 

Jul. How — earnest thou hither, tell me? and wherefore? 
The orchard walls — are high, and hard — to climb; 
And the place — death, — {considering — who thou art,) 
If any of my kinsmen— find thee here. 


Rom. With love's light wings — did I o' ex-perch these walls; 
For stony limits — can not hold love out: 
And what love — can do — that — dares love — attempt; 
Therefore — thy kinsmen — are no stop — to ?ne. 

Jul. If they do see thee, — they will murder thee ! 

Rom. Alack ! there lies mwe peril — in thine eye — 
Than twenty — of their swords ; look thou — but sweet, — 
And / — am proof — against their enmity. 

Jul. I would not — (for the world) they saw thee here. 

Rom. I have nights cloak — to hide me — from their eyes; 
And, — but thou — love — me, — let them find me here : 
My life — were better ended — by their hate — 
Than death — prorogued — wanting — of thy love. 

Jul. By whose direction — found'st thou out this place ? 

Rom. By love, — who first did prompt me — to inquire ; 
He — lent me — counsel, — and / — lent him — eyes. 
I — am no pilot; yet — wert thou — as far 
As that vast shore — wash'd — with the farthest sea, — 
I would adventure — for such merchandise. 

Jul. Thou know'st — the mask of night — is on my face, 
Else — would a maiden blush — bepaint my cheek — 
For that — which thou hast heard me speak — to-night. 
Fain — would I dwell on form, — fain, — -fain deny — 
What I have spoke. But — farewell — compliment I 
Dost thou — love me? I know — thou wilt say, — l Aye, 7 
And I will take thy word; yet — if thou swear' st, — 
Thou mayst — prove false; — at lovers' perjuries, 
(They say,) Jove — laughs. O gentle Romeo! 
If thou dost love, — pronounce it — faithfully : 
Or — if thou think' st — I am too quickly won, — 
I '11 frown, and be perverse, — and say thee — nay, — 
So — thou wilt woo; but — else — not for the world. 
In truth, — fair Montague, — I am — too fond, 
And therefore — thou mayst think — my 'havior light: 
But trust me, — (gentleman,) — I'll prove more true — 
Than those — th't have more cunning — to be strange. 
I — shoidd have been more strange, — I must confess, 
But — th't thou overheard st, (ere I was 'ware,) 
My true love's passion: therefore, pardon me; 
And not impute this yielding — to light love, 
Which the dark night — hath so discover 'd. 

Rom. Lady, — by yonder blessed moon — I swear, 
Th't tips — (with silver) — all these fruit-tree, tops 

Jul. Oh, swear not — by the moon, — the inconstant moon, 
Th't monthly — changes — in her circled orb, 
Lest — th't thy love — prove — (likeivise) — variable. 

Rom. What shall I— swear by ? 

Jul- Do not swear, — at all; 

Or, — (if thou wilt,) swear — by thy gracious self, 


(Which is the god — of my idolatry,) 
And I'll believe thee. 

Rom. If my hearts — dear love 

Jul. Well, — do not swear : although I joy — in thee, 
I have no joy — of this contract' — to-night; 
It is too rash, — too unadvised, — too sudden ; 
Too — like the lightning, which doth cease — to be 
Ere one can say — 'It lightens V Sweet, — good night! 
This bud of love, — (by summer's ripening breath,) — 
May prove a beauteous flower — when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose — and rest 
Come to thy heart — as that — within my breast ! 

Rom. Oh ! wilt thou — leave me — so — unsatisfied ? 

Jul. What satisfaction — canst thou have to-night ? 

Mom. The exchange — of thy love's faithful vow — for mine. 

Jul. I gave thee — mine — before thou didst request it : 
And yet I would — it were — to give again. 

Rom. Wouldst thou — withdraw it ? for what purpose, — love ? 

Jul. But, — to be frank, — to give it thee — again. 
And yet — I wish — but for the thing — I have: 
My bounty — is as boundless — as the sea; 
My love — as deep ; the more — I give to thee, 

The more — I have ; for both — are infinite. [Nurse calls within. 

I hear some noise — within: dear love, — adieu! 
Anon, — good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, — be true. 
Stay — but a little,-—!, will come again. [Exit. 

Rom. blessed, — blessed night! I am afeard, 
(Being in night,) — all this — is but a dream, 
Too— flattering-sweet — to be substantial. [Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Three words, — dear Romeo, — and good night — indeed. 
If — th't thy bent of love — be honorable, 
Thy purpose — marriage, — send me word — to-morrow, 
By one. — th't I'll procure — to — come to thee, — 
Where — and what time — thou wilt perform the rite; 
And all my fortunes — at thy foot — I'll lay, — 
And follow thee, — (my lord,) throughout the world. 

Nurse [within.'] Madam ! 

Jul. I come, — anon ! But — if thou mearist not well, 
I do beseech thee 

Nurse [within.] Madam ! 

Jul. By-and-Sy — I come: — 

To cease thy strife, — and leave me — to my grief : 
To-morrow — will I send. 

Rom. So — thrive my soul 

Jul. A thousand times — good — night! [Exit. 

Rom. A thousand times — the worse to want thy light. 
Love — goes toward love — as school-boys — -from their books ; 
But love— from love — toward school with heavy looks. [Retiring. 
[Re-enter Juliet, above. 


Jul. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! Oh, for a falconer's voice — 
To lure — this tassel-gentle — back — again ! 
Bondage — is hoarse, — and may not — speak aloud; 
Else — would I tear the cave — where Echo lies, — 
And make her airy tongue — more hoarse — than mine 
"With repetition — of my Romeo. 

Rom. It is — my soul — th't calls upon my name : 
How silver-sweet — sound lovers' tongues — by night t 
Like softest music — to attending ears ! 

Jul. Romeo ! 

Rom. My sweet ! 

Jul. At what o'clock — [to-morrow) 

Shall I send to thee ? 

Rom. At the hour — of nine. 

Jul. I will not fail : 't is twenty years — till then! 
I have forgot — why — I did call thee back. 

Rom. Let me stand here — till thou remember it. 

Jul. I shall forget, — to have thee still stand there, 
Remembering — how I love thy company. 

Rom. And I '11 still stay — to have thee — still— forget, 
Forgetting any other home — hut this. 

Jul. 'Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone: 
And yet — no further — than a wantons bird; 
Who lets it hop — a little — from her hand, 
(Like a poor prisonet — -in his twisted gyves,) 
And — (with a silk thread) plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous — of his liberty. 

Rom. I would — I — were thy bird. 

Jul. Sweet, — so — would I. 

Yet — I should kill thee — with much cherishing. 
Good — night, good night ! parting — is such sweet sorrow, — 
Th't I shall say — good — night, till it be morrow. [Exit. 

Rom. Sleep — dwell — upon thine eyes, — peace — in thy breast! 
Would — / — were sleep — and peace — so — sweet — to rest ! 
Hence — will I — to my ghostly father's cell, 
His help — to crave — and my dear hap — to tell. [Exit. 


Hamlet. Now, — mother, — what 's the matter ? 

Queen. Hamlet, — thou hast thy father — much offended. 

Ham. Mother, — you — have my father — much offended. 

Queen. Come, — come! you answer — with an idle tongue. 

Ham. Go, — go ! — you — question — with a wicked tongue. 

Queen. Why, how now, — Hamlet ? 

Ham. What 's the matter — now 9 

Queen. Have you forgot me? 

Ham. No, — by the rood ! not so : 

Tou — are the queen; your husbands — brother's wife; 
And, would— it were not so ! — you — are my mother. 


Queen. Nay, — then, — I '11 set those to you that can speak. 

Ham. Come, — come, — and sit you down; you shall not budge; 
You go not — till I set you up a glass — 
Where you may see — the inmost — part of you. 

Queen. What — wilt thou do ? — thou wilt not murder me? 

Ham. Leave wringing of your hands : Peace, sit you down, 
And let me — wring — your heart : for so — I shall, 
If it be made — of penetrable stuff; 
If dam-ned custom — have not brazd it so 
Th't it is proof — and bulwark — against sense. 

Queen. What — have I done, — th't thou darest — wag thy tongue 
In ?ioise — so rude against me? 

Ham. Such an act — 

Th't blurs the grace — and blush — of modesty ; 
Calls virtue — hypocrite; takes off the rose — 
From the fair forehead — of an innocent love — 
And sets a blister — there; makes marriage-vows — 
As false — as dicers' oaths : Oh ! such a deed — 
As — from the body — of contraction — plucks 
The very soul; and sweet religion — makes 
A rhapsody — of words. Heaven's face — doth glow; 
Yea, — this solidity — and compound mass, — 
(With tristful visage, — as against the doom,) 
Is thought-sick — at the act. 

Queen. Ahmel what act, — 

That roars — so loud, — and thunders — in the index ? 

Ham. Look here, — upon this picture, — and — on this j 
The counterfeit — presentment — of two brothers. 
See what a grace — was seated — on this brow : 
Hyperion 's curls ; the front — of Jove — himself ; 
An eye — like Mars, — to threaten — or — command; 
A station — like the herald Mercury, 
Aeio-lighted — on a Aeauew-kissing hill; 
A combination — and a form, — indeed, 
Where every god — did seem — to set his seal } 
To give the world assurance of a man : 
This — was — your husband. Look you — now — what follows: 
Here — is — your husband; like a mildew 'd ear, — 
Blasting — his wholesome — brother. Have you eyes f 
Could you — on this fair mountain — leave — to feed — 
And batten — on this moor ? Ha ! have you — eyes ? 
You can not — call it love : for, — at your age, — 
The Ivy-day — in the blood — is tame, — it's humble, — 
And waits — upon the judgment: and what judgment 
Would step — from this — to this? 

Queen. Oh ! speak no more : 

Thou turn'st mine eyes — into my very soul; 
And there — I see — such black — and grained spots — 
As will not — leave their tinct. Oh! speak to me — no more; 


These words, — (like daggers,) — enter in mine ears 
No more, — sweet Hamlet 

Ham. A murderer — and a villain; 

A slave, — th't is not twentieth part — the tithe — 
Of your precedent lord: a vice— of kings; 
A cwtfpurse — of the empire — and the rule ; 
Th't — ^from a shelf) the precious diadem stole, 
And put it — in his pocket! 

Queen. No more ! 

Ham. A king — of shreds — and patches : [Enter Ghost. 

Save me, — and hover o'er me — with your icings, — 

You heavenly guards I — What would — you, gracious figure ? 

Queen. Alas! he's mad! 

Ham. Do you not come — your tardy son to chide, 
Th't, — (lapsed in time — and passion,) lets go by 
The important acting — of your dread command? 
Oh, say! 

Ghost. Do not forget : this visitation — 
Is but to whet — thy almost — blunted purpose. 
But — look ! amazement — on thy mother sits : 
Oh! step — between her — and her fighting soul: 
Conceit — in weakest bodies — strongest — works : 
Speak to her, — Hamlet. 

Ham. How is it — with you, lady ? 

Queen. Alas ! how — is 't with you, 
Th't you do bend your eye — on vacancy, 
And — (with the incorporeal air) — do hold discourse ? 
Whereon — do you look f 

Ham. On him ! on him ! Look you, — how pale he glares I 
His form — and cause — conjoined, — preaching — to stones, — 
"Would make them capable. Do not look — upon me; 
Lest, — (with his piteous action.) you convert 
My stern effects : then — what I have to do — 
Will want true color: tears, — [perchance,) for blood. 

Queen. To whom — do you speak this ? 

Ham. Do you see nothing — there? 

Queen. Nothing — at all; — yet — all — th't is — I see. 

Ham. Nor — did you nothing — hear? 

Queen. No. — nothing, but ourselves. 

Ham. Why. look you there ! look, how it steals away ! 
My father, in his habit — as he lived! 
Look ! where he goes, — even now, — out at the portal ! [Exit Ghost. 

Queen. This — is the very coinage— of your brain : 
This bodiless creation — ecstasy — 
Is very cunning in. 

Ham. Ecstasy ! 

My pulse. — (as yoiu's.) doth temperately — keep time, — 

And make — as healthful music. It is not madness 

Th't I have utter d: bring me to the test, — 


And I — the matter — will re-word ; which madness — 
Would gambol from. Mother, (for love of grace,) — 
Lag not — that — -flattering unction — to your soul, — 
Th't not your trespass, — but my madness, — speaks: 
It will but skin — and film — the ulcerous place, — 
Whilst rank corruption, — (mining all — within),-*- 
Infects — unseen. Confess yourself — to Heaven; 
Repent — what 's past ; avoid — what is to come ; 
And do not spread the compost — on the weeds, — 
To make them — ranker. 

Queen. Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart — in twain. 

Ham. Oh, throw away — the worser part of it, 
And live — the purer — with the other half. 
Good — night; once more — good — night ! 
And — when you are desirous — to be blest— 
I 1 11 — blessing — beg of you. 


Lear. Give me the map there. Know, th't we have divided 
(In three) — our kingdom : and 't is our fast intent 
To shake all cares — and business — from our age; 
Conferring them — on younger strengths, while we — 
{JJnburtlien 'd) crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, 
And you, (our no less loving son — of Albany,) 
"We have — (this hour) a constant will — to publish 
Our daughters — several dowers, th't future strife 
May be prevented — now. The princes, [France — and Burgundy, 
Great rivals — in our youngest daughter's love,) 
Long in our court — have made their amorous sojourn, 
And here — are to be answered. Tell me, my daughters, — 
(Since now — we will divest us — both of rule, 
Liter est of territory, cares of state,) — 
Which of you — (shall we say) doth love us most? 
Th't we — our largest bounty — may extend — 
"Where nature — doth with merit challenge. Goneril, 
(Our eldest-bom,) speak first. 

Goneril. Sir, I love you — more than word — can wield the matter; 
Dearer — than eye-sight, space, — and liberty; 
Beyond — what can be valued, — rv-h — or rare ; 
No less — than life, — with grace, health, beauty, honor ; 
As much — as child. — e'er loved, or father — found. 
A love that makes breath — poor, and speech — unable; 
Beyond — all manner — of so much — I love you. 

Cordelia [aside.] (What shall Cordelia do? Love, — and be silent !) 

Lear. Of all th'tse bounds, (even from this line — to this, 
With shadowy forests — and with champaigns rich'd, 
With plenteous rivers and rc/afc-skirtcd meads,) 
We make thee — lady : To thine — and Albany's issues — 


Be this — perpetual. What says our second daughter, 
Our dearest Regan, wife — to Cornwall ? Speak. 

Regan. I — am made of that self metal — as my sister, 
And prize me — at her worth. In my true heart 
I find — she — names my very deed of love; 
Only — she comes too short; — th't I— profess 
Myself — an enemy — to all — other joys, 
"Which the most precious square — of sense possesses ; 
And find — I am — alone — felicitate — 
In your dear — highness* love. 

Cor [aside.'] (Then— ipoor Cordelia I 

And yet — not so ; since, I am sure, — my love 's 
More richer — than my tongue.) 

Lear. To thee — and thine, — (hereditary — ever,)— 
Remain — this ample third — of our fair kingdom; 
No less — in space, validity, and pleasure, 
Than that — conferred on Goneril. Now, — our joy, 
(Although our last, not least ; to whose young love-— 
The vines — of France — and milk — of Burgundy — 
Strive — to be interest d ;) what can you say, to draw 
A third — more opulent — than your sisters ? Speak, 

Cor. Nothing, — my lord. 

Lear. Nothing ? 

Cor. Nothing. 

Lear. Nothing — will come of nothing: speak again. 

Cor. Unhappy — th't I am, I can not heave 
My heart — into my mouth : I love your majesty — 
According to my bond ; nor more, — nor less. 

Lear. How, how, Cordelia ? mend your speech — a little, 
Lest you mar — your fortunes. 

Cor. Good my lord, 

You have begot me, bred me, — loved me ! I 
Return those duties back — as are right fit, 
Obey you, — love you, and most honor you. 
Why — have my sisters — husbands, if they say — 
They love you — all ? Haply, when J shall wed, 
That lord — whose hand — must take my plight shall carry 
Half — my love — with him, half — my care — and duty: 
Sure, — J — shall never marry — like my sisters, 
To love my father — all. 

Lear. But — goes thy heart — with this ? 

Cor. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. So young, and so — untender ? 

Cor. So young, (my lord,) and true. 

Lear. Let it be so; thy truth, (then,) be thy dower: 
For, (by the sacred radiance — of the sun, 
The mysteries — of Hecate and the night ; 
By all the operation of the orbs, 
From whom — we do exist, and cease — to be ;) 


Here — I disclaim — all my paternal care, 

Propinquity — and properly — of blood, 

And — as a stranger — to my heart — and me — 

Hold thee, from this, — for ever! The barbarous Scythian, 

Or — he — th't makes his generation messes — 

To gorge his appetite, shall — (to my bosom) — 

Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved, 

As thou, — my {sometime) daughter. 

Kent. Good my liege, 

Lear. Peace, Kent! 
Come not — between the dragon — and his wrath. 
I loved her — most, and thought to set my rest — 
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight ! 
So — be my- grave — my peace, as here — I give 
Her father's heart — from her ! Call France : Who stirs ? 
Call Burgundy. Cornwall — and Albany, 
With my two daughters' dowers — digest — the third : 
Let pride, (which she — calls plainness,) marry her. 
I do invest you — -jointly — with my power, 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects — 
Th't troop— with majesty. Our self, — (by monthly course, 
With reservation — of an hundred knights, 
By you — to be sustain'd,) shall our abode 
Make with you — by due turns. Only — we still — retain 
The name and all the additions — to a king ; 
The sway, revenue, execution — of the rest, 
(Beloved sons,) be yours: which — to confirm, 
This coronet — part — betwixt you. [Giving the crown. 

Kent. Boyal Lear, 
Whom I have ever — honored — as my king, 
Loved — as my father, as my master — followed, 
As my great patron — thought on — in my prayers, 

Lear. The bow — is bent — and drawn, make — from the shaft! 

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork — invade 
The region of my heart: be Kent — unmannerly — 
When Lear — is mad. What — would'st thou do, old man? 
Think st thou — th't duty — shall have dread — to speak — 
When power — to flattery bows? To plainness — honor's bound, 
When majesty — falls to folly. Reverse thy doom ; 
And, (in thy best consideration,) check — 
This hideous rashness: answer my life — my judgment, 
Thy youngest daughter — does not love thee — least; 
Nor — are those — empty-hearted — whose low sounds — 
Reverb no hollowness. 

Lear. Kent, on thy life, — no more. 

Kent. My life — I never held — but as a pawn — ■ 
To wage against thine enemies; nor— fear — to lose it, 
Thy safety — being the motive. 

Lear. Out of my sight! 


Kent. See better, Lear ; and let me still — remain 
The true blank — of thine eye. 

Lear. Now, by Apollo, 

Kent. Now, by Apollo, — king, 

Thou swear'st thy gods — in vain. 

Lear. Hear me, — recreant ! 

On thine allegiance, — hear me ! 
Since thou hast sought — to make us break our vows, 
(Which — we durst never — get,) and — with strairid pride- 
To come — betwixt our sentence — and our power, 
("Which — nor our nature — nor our place can bear,) 
Our potency — made good, take — thy reward. 
Five days — we do allot thee — for provision — 
To shield thee — from diseases — of the world; 
And — (on the sixth) to turn thy hated back — 
Upon our kingdom : if (on the tenth day — -following) 
Thy banish 'd trunk — be found — in our dominions, 
The moment — is thy death. Away ! by Jupiter, 
This shall not be revoked. 

Kent. Fare thee — well, — king : sith thus — thou wilt appear^ 
Freedom — lives hence, and banishment — is here. 
[To Cordelia."] The gods — to their dear shelter — take thee, maid, 
Th't justly — think st, and hast most rightly — said! 
[ To Gon. and Reg.] And your large speeches — may your deeds — approve, 
Th't good effects — may spring — from words of love. 
Thus — Kent, — (O princes,) bids you all — adieu; 
He '11 shape his old course — in a country new. [Exit. 

[Enter Gloucester, France, and Burgundy.] 

Glou. Here's France — and Burgundy, (my noble lord.) 

Lear. My lord — (of Burgundy,) 
"We first — address toward you, who — (with this king) — 
Hath rival d — for our daughter : what, (in the least,) 
"Will you require — in present dower — with her, 
Or cease — your quest of love ? 

Burgundy. Most royal majesty, 

I crave — no more — than hath your highness — offered. 
Nor will you — tender — less. 

Lear. Eight noble Burgundy, 

"When she — was dear to us, we did hold her so; 
But now — her price — is fallen. Sir, there — she stands; 
If aught — within that little, — seeming substance, 
Or all of it, (with our displeasure pieced,) 
And nothing — more, may fitly — like your grace, 
She 's there, and — she — is yours. 

Bur. I know — no answer. 

Lear. Will you, (with these infirmities — she owes, 
Unfriended, rjeiw-adopted to our hate, 
Bower 'd — with our curse, and stranger'd — with our oath,) 
Take her, or — leave her ! 


Bur. Pardon me, royal sir; 

Election — makes not up — on such conditions. 

Lear. Then — leave her, sir; for, (by the power — th't wade me, 
I tell you — all her wealth. [To France.'] For you, — great king, 
I would not — from your love — make such a stray, 
To match you — where I hate; therefore — beseech you 
To avert your liking — a more worthier way — 
Than — on a wretch — whom nature — is ashamed 
(Almost) — to acknowledge hers. 

France. This — is most strange, 

Th't she, (th't even but now — was your best object, 
The argument — of your praise, balm — of your age, 
Most best, most dearest,) should — (in this trice of time) 
Commit a thing — so monstrous, to dismantle — 
So many folds — of favor. Sure, her offense — 
Must be of such unnatural degree 
Th't monsters it, — or — your /ore-vouch 'd affection — 
Fall'n into taint: which — to believe — of her 
Must be a faith — th't reason — (without miracle) — 
Could never plant in me. 

Cor. I yet — beseech your majesty, — 

(If — for I want — that glib — and oily art, 
To speak — and purpose not ; since — what I well intend 
I '11 do 't — before I speak,) — th't you make known — 
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 
No unchaste action — or dishonored step, 
Th't hath deprived me — of your grace — and favor: 
But — even — for want of that — for which — I am richer, 
A sfo'W-soliciting eye, and such a tongue — 
As I am glad — I have not ; though not to have it 
Hath lost me — in your liking. 

Lear. Better — thou 

Hadst not been born — than — not to have pleas'd me — better. 

France. Is it — but this, — a tardiness — in nature, 
Which often — leaves the history — unspoke — 
Th't it intends to do ? My lord of Burgundy, 
What say you — to the lady ? Love 's — not love — 
When it is mingled with regards th't stand 
Aloof — from the entire point. Will you have her? 
She is herself — a dowry. 

Bur. Royal Lear, 

Give — but that portion — which your selj r — proposed, 
And here — I take — Cordelia — by the hand, 
Duchess — of Burgundy. 

Lear. Nothing : I have sworn; I am firm. 

Bur. I am sorry, — then, you have so — lost a father — 
Th't you must lose — a husband. 

Cor. Peace — be with Burgundy! 


Since — th't respects of fortune — are his love, 
I — shall not be — his wife. 

France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; 
Most choice, [forsaken ;) and most loved, — [despised!) 
Thee — and thy virtues — here — I seize upon : 
Be it — lawful, — / take up — what 's cast away. 
Gods, gods! 'tis strange — th't — from their cold'st neglect — 
My love — should kindle — to inflamed respect. 
Thy dowerless daughter, (king,) thrown to my chance. 
Is queen — of us, of ours, and our fair France: 
Not all the dukes — of waterish Burgundy — 
Can buy — this — unprized — precious maid of me. 
Bid them farewell, — (Cordelia,) — though — unkind: 
Thou losest — here, a better — where to find. 

Lear. Thou hast her, France ; let her be thine, for we— 
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever — see 
That face of hers — again. Therefore be gone — 
Without our grace, our love, our benison. 
Come, — noble Burgundy. [Exeunt. 

France. Bid farewell to your sisters. 

Cor. The jewels — of our father, — (with wash'd eyes) 
Cordelia leaves you: I know you — ujha.t you are; 
And, (like a sister,) am most loath — to call 
Your faults — as they are named. Use well our father : 
To your professed bosoms — I commit him: 
But yet, — (alas!) stood / — within his grace, 
I would prefer him — to a better place. 
So — farewell — to you both. 

Gon. Prescribe not us — our duties. 

Reg. Let your study 

Be — to content your lord; who hath received you 
At fortune's alms. You — have obedience scanted, — 
And well — are worth the want — th't you have wanted. 

Cor. Time — shall unfold — what plighted cunning — hides: 
Who covers faults at last — shame — them derides. 
Well — may you prosper! 

France. Coyne, — -my fair Cordelia. [Exeunt. 

Gon. Sister, it is not a little — I have to say — of what nearly — appertains 
to us both. I think — our father — will hence — to-night. 

Reg. That's most certain, and with you; next month with us. 

Gon. You see how full of changes — his age is ; the observation — we have 
made of it — hath not been little : he always — loved our sister — most; and 
with what poor judgment — he hath now — cast her off appears too grossly. 

Reg. 'T is the infirmity — of his age : yet — he hath ever but slenderly — ■ 
known himself. 

Gon. The best — and soundest of his time — hath been but rash: then — ■ 
must we look — to receive from his age not alone — the imperfections — of 
foragr-engraffed condition, but, (therewithal,) the unruly waywardness — th't 
infirm — and choleric years — bring with them. 


Reg. Such uncCnstant starts — are we like to have from him, as this — of 
Keats banishment. 

Qon. There is further compliment of ^aye-taking between France — and him. 
Pray you — let us hit together : if our father — carry authority — with such dispo- 
sitions as he bears, this last surrender of his — will but offend us. 

Reg. We shall further — think on 't. 

Gon. We must do something, — and i' the heat. 

Act III. Storm. Enter Kent and a Gentleman. 

Kent. Who 's there, besides foul weather ? 

Gent. One — minded like the weather, — most unquietly. 

Kent. I know you. Where 's the king ? 

Gent. Contending with the fretful elements. 

Kent. But who — is with him? 

Gent. None — but the fool; who labors — to outjest 
His heart-struck injuries. [Enter Lear and Fool. 

Lear. Bloio, xcinds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! 
You cataracts — and hurricanoes, — spout — 
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! 
You sulphurous — and thought-executing fires, 
(Vaunt-couriers — to oa&-cleaving thunder-bolts,) — 
Singe — my white head! And thou, — a££-shaking thunder, — 
Smite flat — the thick rotundity — of the world! 
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill — (at once,) 
Th't make ingrateful man! 

Fool. O nuncle, — court holy-water — in a dry house — is better than this rain- 
water — out o' door. Good nuncle, — in, and ask thy daughters' blessing: here's 
a night — pities neither wise men — nor fools. 

Lear. Rumble — thy bellyful ! Spit, fire ! spout, rain 1 
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, — are my daughters ; 
I tax not you, (you elements,) with unkindness ; 
I never gave you — kingdom, call'd you — children; 
You — owe me — no subscription : then — let fall — 
Your horrible pleasure : here I stand, — your slave, 
A poor, — infirm, — weak, — and despised — old man: 
But yet — I call you — servile ministers, 
Th't have — with two — pernicious daughters — joined — 
Your Ai^A-engender'd battles — 'gainst a head — 
So — old — and white — as this. Oh! — Oh! 'tis fold! 

Fool. He — th't has a house — to put 's head in — has a good Aeao'-piece. 

Lear. No! I will be the pattern — of all patience: 
I will say nothing. \_Enter Kent. 

Kent. Who 's there ? 

Fool. Marry, here's grace — and a coc^piece; that's a wise man — and a fool. 

Kent. Alas! sir, are you here? things that love night 
Love not such nights — as these: the wrathful skies — 
Gallow the very wanderers — of the dark, 
And make them keep their eaves: since I was man 
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, 


Such groans — of roaring wind — and rain, — I never 
Remember to have heard: man's nature — can not carry 
The affliction — nor the fear. 

Lear. Let the great gods, 

(That keep this dreadful pother — o'er our heads,) 
Find out their enemies — now. Tremble, — thou wretch, 
Th't hast — within thee — undivulged crimes, 
Unwhipp'd — of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand; 
Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue 
That art incestuous : caitiff, — to pieces shake, 
Th't — (under covert — and convenient seeming) — 
Hast practiced — on man's life! Close pent-up guilts, 
Rive — your concealing continents, — and cry 
These dreadful summoners — grace ! I — am a man- 
More — sinned against — than sinning. 

Kent. Alack, bare-headed! 

Gracious my lord, hard by here — is a hovel ; — 
Some friendship — will it lend you — 'gainst the tempest. 

Lear. My wits — begin to turn. 

Come on, — my boy : how dost, my boy? Art cold 1 ? 
I am cold — myself. Where is this straw, my fellow ? 
The art — of our necessities — is strange, 
Th't can make vile things — precious. Come, your hovel. 
Poor fool — and knave, I have one part in my heart 
That 's sorry yet — for thee. Come, — bring us to this hovel. [Exeunt. 

Scene Fourth. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 

Kent. Here — is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter: 
The tyranny — of this open night 's — too rough — 
For nature — to endure. 

Lear. Let me alone. 

Kent. Good my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Wilt break my heart ? 

Kent. I'd rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter. 

Lear. Thou — think'st 't is much — th't this contentious storm 
Invades us — to the skin: so H is — to thee; 
But — where the greater malady is fix'd 
The lesser — is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; 
But — if thy flight — lay toward the raging sea, — 
Thou'dst meet the bear — i' the mouth. When the mind 1 s— free 
The body 's — delicate : the tempest — in my mind — 
Doth — from my senses — take all feeling — else, — 
Save^-what beats — there. Filial — ingratitude ! 
Is it not — as this mouth — should tear — this hand — 
For lifting food to't? But — I will punish — home: 
No, — I will weep — no — more. In such a night — 
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. 
In such a night— as this ! Regan, Goneril ! 
Your old— kind— father, whose frank heart — gave all, 


Oh ! that way madness lies; let me shun that; 
No more of that! 

Kent. Good — my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Prithee, — go in thyself ; seek thine own ease: 
This tempest — will not give me leave — to ponder 
On things — would hurt me — more. But — I ! 11 go in. 
Poor — naked wretches, — (wheresoever you are, 
Th't bide the pelting — of this pitiless storm,) 
Hoio — shall your houseless heads — and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd — and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons — such as these ? Oh, — I — have ta'en 
Too little care of this! Take physic,— pomp ; 
Expose thyself — to feel — what wretches feel; 
Th't thou may'st shake the superfiux — to them } 
And show the heavens — more 

Act IV. — Scene Fourth. Enter Cordelia, Physician, and Soldiers. 

Cor. Alack! 'tis he: why, he was met — even now — 
As mad — as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; 
Crown' d — with rank fumiter — and furrow weeds, 
"With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, — cwcAooflowers, 
Darnel, — and all the idle weeds — th't grow 
In our sustaining corn. A century send forth; 
Search every acre — in the high-grown field, 
And bring him — to our eye. [Exit an Officer. 

What — can man's wisdom do — 
In the restoring his bereaved sense ? 
He th't helps him, take all — my outward worth. 

Physician. There is means, — madam : 

Our foster-nurse — of nature — is repose, 
The which — he lacks; that — to provoke in him 
Are many simples operative, whose power — 
"Will close the eye of anguish. 

Cor. All bless'd secrets, 

All you unpublished virtues — of the earth, — 
Spring — with my tears! be aidant — and remediate 
In the good man's distress ! Seek, seek for him ; 
Lest his ungoverned rage — dissolve the life — 
Th't wants the means — to lead it. [Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. News, madam: 

The British powers — are marching hitherward. 

Cor. 'Tis known — before; our preparation — stands 
In expectation of them. O dear father ! 
It is thy business — th't I go about; 
Therefore — great France — 

My mourning— and important tears — hath pitied. 
No blown ambition — doth our arms incite, 
But love, — dear love, and our ag'd father's right: 
Soon — may I hear — and see him ! [Exeunt 


Scene Seventh. Lear asleep. Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Physician. 

Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live — and work, 
To match thy goodness ? My life — will be too short, 
And every measure — -fail me. 

Kent. To be acknowledged, — madam, is o'er-paid. 
All my reports — go with the modest truth; 
Nor more,— nor clipped, — but so. 

Cor. Be better suited : 

These weeds — are memories — of those worser hours : 
I prithee, — put them off. 

Kent. Pardon me, dear madam; 

Yet — to be known — shortens — my made intent : 
My boon — I make it th't you know me not — 
Till time — and / — think meet. 

Cor. Then oe't so, my good lord. \To Phys.] How does the king? 

Phys. Madam, sleeps still. 

Cor. O you kind gods, 

Cure — this great breach — in his abused nature ! 
The untuned — and jarring senses, oh, wind up — 
Of this cMG?-changed father ! 

. Phys. So please your majesty, — 

Th't we may wake the king? he hath slept long. 

Cor. Be governed by your knowledge, and proceed — 
I' the sway of your own will. Is he arrayed ? 

Gent. Ay, — madam ; in the heaviness of his sleep — 
"We put fresh garment's on him. 

Phys. Be by, (good madam,) when we do awake him; 
I doubt not — of his temperance. 

Cor. Yery well. 

Phys. Please you, draw near. Louder — the music there ! 

Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang 
Thy medicine — on my lips; and let this kiss — 
Repair — those violent harms — th't my two sisters — 
Have — in thy reverence — made ! 

Kent. Kind — and dear princess ! 

Cor. Had you — not been their father, — these — white flakes— 
Had challenged pity of them. Was this — a face — 
To be opposed — against the warring winds ? 
To stand — against the deep — dread-hohed thunder; 
In the most terrible — and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning ? to watch, — (poor perdu !) 
"With this — thin helm ? Mine enemy's dog, 
(Though he had bit me,) should have stood — (that night) 
Against my fire; and — wast thou fain, (poor father,) 
To hovel thee — with swine and rogues forlorn, 
In short — and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 
'Tis wonder — th't thy life — and wits — (at once) — 
Had not concluded all. He wakes! speak to him ! 


Phys. Madam, — do you ; 't is fittest. 

Cor. How does — my royal lord? How fares your majesty? 

Lear. You do me wrong — to take me out. o' the grave: 
Thou — art a soul — in bliss; but / — am bound — 
Upon a wheel of fire, th't mine own tears — 
Do scald — like molten lead. 

Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 

Lear. You are a spirit, — I know: when did you die? 

Cor. Still, — still— -far wide ! 

Phys. He 's scarce awake ; let him alone — awhile. 

Lear. Where — have I been? Where — am I? Pair daylight 1 
I am mightily — abused. I should e'en die — with pity 
To see another thus. I know not — what to say. 
I will not swear — these are my hands : let 's see ; 
I feel this pin prick. Would — I were assured — 
Of my condition. 

Cor. Oh, look upon me, sir, 

And hold your hand — in benediction o'er me: 
No, — sir, — you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me : 

I am a very foolish — fond — old man, 
Fourscore — and ujjward; not an hour — more nor less: 
And, (to deal plainly,) 
I fear — I am not — in my perfect mind. 
Methinks — I should know you, and know this man; 
Yet — I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant — 
What place this is: and all the skill I have 
Remembers not — these — garments; nor — I know not— 
Where — I did lodge — last night. Do not laugh at me; 
For, as I am a man, I think this lady — 
To he my child — Cordelia. 

Cor. And so — I am, — I am. 

Lear. Be your tears — wet? Yes, 'faith. I pray — weep not: 
If you have poison for me I will drink it. 
I know — you — do not love me ; for your sisters — 
Have, — (as I do remember,) done me wrong : 
You — have some cause, they — have not. 

Cor. No cause, — no cause I 

Lear. Am I — in France ? 

Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Lear. Do not abuse me. 

Phys. Be comforted, — good madam : the great rage, 
(You see,) is cured in him: and yet it is danger — 
To make him — even o'er the time — he has lost. 
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more 
Till further settling. 

Cor. Will 't please your highness — walk ? 

Lear. You must bear, with me ; 

Pray you now,— forget — and forgive: I am old — and foolish. 


Act Y. — Scene Third. Lear and Cordelia,' as prisoners. 

Cor. We — are not the first — 
"Who, (with best meaning,) — have incurr'd the worst. 
For thee, — (oppressed king,) am I cast down; 
Myself— could — else — oxxt-frown — false fortune's frown. 
Shall we not see — these daughters, — and these sisters ? 

Lear. No, no; no, no! Come, — let's away — to prison; 
We two — alone — will sing — like birds — i' the cage : 
When thou — dost ask me — blessing, I'll kneel down, 
And ask of thee — -forgiveness : so — we '11 live, 
And pray, — and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh — 
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them — too, 
Who — loses, — and who — wins ; who 's in, who's out; 
And take upon us — the mystery of things, — 
As if we — were God's spies: and we'll wear out, 
(In a wall'd prison,) packs — and sects — of great ones, 
That ebb — and flow — by the moon. 
Upon such sacrifices, (my Cordelia,) 

The gods {themselves) throw incense. Have I — caught thee? 
He — th't parts us — shall bring a brand — from heaven 
And fire us hence, — like foxes. Wipe thine eyes ; 
The good — years — shall devour them, flesh — and fell, 
Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve — first. 


Lady Macbeth. Glamis — thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be— 
What thou art promised. Yet — do I fear — thy nature; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness 
To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great? — 
Art not without ambition : but — without 

The illness — should attend it. What thou would'st — highly, — 
That — would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, — 
And yet — would'st wrongly — win: thou'dst have, (great Glamis,) 
That — which cries, — '■Thus — thou must do, if thou have it; 
And that— which — rather — thou dost fear to do — 
Than icishest — should be undone.' Hie thee hither, 
Th't I may pour my spirits — in thine ear; 
And chastise — (with the valor of my tongue) — 
All th't impedes thee — from the golden round, 
Which fate — and metaphysical aid — doth seem 
To have thee crown d withal. What — is your tidings f [Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. The king — comes here to-night. 

Lady M. Thou 'rt mad to say it: 

Is not thy master with him? who, (were't so,) 
Would have inform d — for preparation. 

Mess. So, — (please you,) it is true; our thane — is coming: 
One of my fellows — had the speed of him ; 



Who, — (almost dead — for breath,) had scarcely more — 
Than would make up his message. 

Lady M. Give him tending. [Exit Messenger. 

He brings great news. The raven — [himself) — is hoarse 
Tht croaks — the fatal entrance of Duncan — 
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 
(Th't tend — on mortal thoughts,) unsex me — here: 
And fill me, — (from the crown — to the toe,) top-full — 
Of direst cruelty ! make thick — my blood, 
Stop up the access — and passage — to remorse, 
Th't no compunctious visitings — of nature — 
Shake — my fell purpose, — nor keep peace — between 
The effect — and it! Come — to my woman's breasts, — 
And take my milk — for gall, (you murdering ministers,) 
Wherever — (in your sightless substances) — 
You wait — on nature's mischief! Come, — thick night, — 
And pall thee — in the dunnest smoke — of hell, 
Th't my keen knife — see not — the wound it makes; 
Nor heaven — peep through the blanket — of the dark — 

To cry, — 'Hold, hold!' Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor! [Enter Macb. 

Greater — than both, — by the — all-hail hereafter ! 
Thy letters — have transported me — beyond — 
This ignorant present, — and I feel — now 
The future in the instant. 

Macbeth. My dearest love, 

Duncan — comes here — to-night. 

Lady M. And when — goes hence ? 

Macb. To-morrow, — (as he purposes.) 

Lady M. Oh, never — 

Shall sun — that morrow — see! 
Your face, — (my thane,) is as a book, — where man 
May read — strange matters. To beguile the time, — 
Look — like the time; bear welcome — in your eye, — 
Your hand, — your tongue: look — like the innocent flower, 
But — be the serpent — under it. He that 's coming 
Must be provided for: and you — shall put 
This night's — great business — into my dispatch; 
Which shall — (to all our nights — and days — to come) 
Give — (solely) — sovereign sivay — and masterdom. 

Macb. We will speak further. 

Lady M. Only — look up — clear; 

To alter favor — ever is — to fear. 
Leave all the rest — to me. 

Scene Fourth. 
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Macduff, Rosse, Angus, etc. 
Duncan. This castle — hath a pleasant seat ; the air 
(Nimbly — and sweetly) — recommends itself 
Unto our gentle senses. 


Banquo. This guest of summer, — 

(The temple-h.2L\mtmg martlet,) does approve, 
(By his loved mansionry) — th't the heaveris breath — 
Smells wooingly here : no jutty, — -frieze, — 
Buttress, — nor coigne of vantage, — but this bird — 
Hath made his pendent bed — and procreant cradle : 
Where they — most breed — and haunt, — I have observed, — 
The air is delicate. {Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Dun. See, see! our honor' d hostess! 

The love — th't follows us — (sometime) — is our trouble, 
"Which still — we thank — as love. Herein — I teach you — 
How you — shall bid God yield us for your pains, — 
And thank us — for your trouble. 

Lady M. All our service — 

In every point — twice done, — and then — done double, 
Were poor — and single business — to contend 
Against those honors — (deep — and broad) wherewith. 
Your majesty — loads our house : for those — of old, — 
And the late dignities — heap'd up — to them, — 
We rest — your hermits. 

Dun. Where 's the thane of Cawdor ? 

We coursed him — at the heels, — and had a purpose — 
To be his purveyor : but — he rides well ; 
And his great love, — (sharp — as his spur,) — hath holp him 
To his home — before us. Fair and noble hostess, 
We are your guest to-night. 

Lady M. Your servants — ever — 

Have theirs — (themselves,) and — what is theirs, — in compt, 
To make their audit — at your highness' pleasure, — 
Still — to return your own. 

Dun. Give me your hand: 

Conduct me — to mine host; we love him — highly, 
And shall continue our graces toward him. 
By your leave, — (hostess.) {Exeunt. 

Scene Seventh. Enter Macbeth. 
Macb. If it were done, — when 'tis done, then — 'twere well — 
It were done quickly. If the assassination — 
Could trammel up the consequence, — and catch, — 
(With his surcease,) — success; th't — but this blow — 
Might be the be-&\\ — and the end-all — here, — 
But — here, — (upon this bank — and shoal of time,) 
We 'd jump — the life — to come. But — (in these cases,) — • 
We still — have judgment — here ; th't we but teach — 
Bloody instructions, — which, — (being taught,) — return — 
To plague — the inventor. This even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients — of our poison' d chalice — 
To our own lips. He 's — here — in double trust : 
First, — as / — am his kinsman — and — his subject, — 


Strong — (both) against the deed; then, — as his host, — 

Who should — (against his murderer) — shut the door, — 

Nor bear the knife — myself. Besides, this Duncan — 

Hath borne his faculties — so meek, — hath been 

So clear — in his great office, — th't his virtues — 

Will plead — like angels, — (trumpet-towgwQdi,) against 

The deep damnation of his taking off: 

And pity, (like a naked — new-horn babe, 

Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed — 

Upon the sightless couriers — of the air,) — 

Shall blow the horrid deed — in every eye, 

Th't tears — shall drown the wind. I have no spur 

To prick the sides — of my intent, — but — only — 

Vaulting ambition, — which o'erleaps itself, — 

And falls — on the other. How wow; what news. [Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady Macb. He has almost supp'd. Why — have you left the chamber? 

Macb. Hath he astid for me? Lady Macb. Know you not — he has? 

Macb. We will proceed no further — in this business: 
He hath honored me — of late; and J — have bought 
Golden opinions — (from all sorts of people,) 
Which would be worn now — in their newest gloss, 
Nor cast aside — so soon. 

Lady Macb. Was the hope — drunk — 

Wherein you dressed yourself? hath it slept, — since ? 
And wakes it — now, — to look so green — and pale — 
At what it did — so freely? From this time, — 
Such — I account — thy love. Art thou afeard — 
To be the same — in thine own act — and valor — 
As thou ar^in desire ? Would'st thou have that — 
Which thou esteem' st — the ornament of life, — 
And live — a coward — in thine own esteem*; 
Letting — "I dare not" — wait upon — "I would, 11 
Like the poor cat — i' the adage? 

Macb. Prithee, — peace: 

I dare — do all — th't may become a man; 
Who dares — do more — is none. 

Lady Macb. What beast — was it — then~ 

Th't made you break — this enterprise — to me ? 
When you durst do it, then — you were a man; 
And, — to be more — than what you were, — you would 
Be so much more — the man. Nor time, — nor place, — 
Did then adhere, — and yet — you would — make both : 
They have made — themselves, — and th't their fitness — now 
Does unmake you. I — have given suck; and know — 
How tender 't is — to love the babe — th't milks me: 
I would, — (while it was smiling — in my face,) 
Have pluck'd my nipple — from its boneless gums, 
And dash'd the brains out, — had / — so sworn as you 
Have done — to this. 


Macb. If we should fail, 

Lady Macb. We— fail. 

But screw your courage — to the sticking-~p]&ce, 
And we'll not fail. When Duncan — is asleep, — 
( Whereto — the rather — shall his day's hard journey — 
Soundly — invite him,) — his two chamberlains — 
Will / — with wine — and wassail — so convince, 
Th't memory, — (the warder of the brain,) 
Shall be a fume, — and the receipt of reason — 
A limbeck only. When — in swinish sleep — 
Their drenched natures lie, — (as in a death,) — 
What — can not you — and / — perform upon 
The unguarded — Duncan ? what — not put upon 
His spongy officers ; who shall bear the guilt — 
Of our great quell ? 

Macb. Bring forth men-children — only; 

For thy — undaunted mettle — should compose 
Nothing — but males. Will it not be received, 
(When we have marKd with blood those sleepy two — 
Of his own chamber, and used their very daggers,) 
Th't they— have done 't? 

Lady Macb. Who — dares receive it — other, 

As we — shall make our griefs — and clamor — roar — 
Upon his death ? 

Macb. I am settled, and bend up — 

.Each corporal agent — to this terrible feat. 
Away, and mock the time — with fairest show : 
False face — must hide — what the false heart — doth know. [Exeunt 

Act II. — Scene First. Enter Banquo and Fleance. 

Banquo. How goes the night, — boy? 

Fleance. The moon is down; (I have not heard the clock.) 

Ban. And she — goes down at twelve. 

Fie. I take't, — 'tis later, sir. 

Ban. Hold, take my sword. There 's husbandry — in heaven, 

Their candles— are all out. Take thee that — too. 

A heavy summons — lies like lead upon me, 

And yet — I woidd not sleep. Merciful powers, 

Restrain in me — the cursed thoughts th't nature — 

Gives way to — in repose! Give me — my sword: — [Enter Macbeth. 

Who 's there ? 

Macb. A friend. 

Ban. What, — sir, not yet — at rest ? The king 's abed : 
He hath been — in unusual pleasure, and 
Sent forth great largess — to your offices. 
This diamond — he greets your wife withal, 
By the name — of most kind hostess ; and shut up 
In measureless content. 

Macb. Being unprepared, — 


Our will — became the servant — to defect; 

Which — (else) — should free have wrought. 

Ban. All 1 swell. 

I dreamt — (lust night) of the three weird sisters: 

To you — they have show'd some — truth. 

Macb. I — think not of them: 

Yet, — when we can entreat an hour — to serve, 

We would spend it — in some words — upon that business, 

If you — would grant the time. 

Ban'. At your kind'st leisure. 

Macb. If you shall cleave — to my consent, when His, 

It shall make honor for you. 

Ban. So — I lose none, 

In seeking to augment it, — but still — keep 

My bosom — franchised, — and allegiance — clear, 

I shall be counsel d. 

Macb. Good repose — (the while.) 

Ban. Thanks, — sir ; the like — to you. [Exit. 

Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, (when my drink — is ready,) 
She strike upon the bell. (Get thee to bed.) [Exit servant. 

Is this — a dagger which I see — before me, 
The handle — toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee: 
I have thee not, — and yet — I see thee — still. 
Art thou not, — {fatal vision,) sensible — 
To feeling — as to sight ? or, art thou — but 
A dagger — of the mind, a false creation, — 
Proceeding — from the Aea^-oppressed brain? 
I see thee — yet, — in form — as palpable — 
As this — which now — I draw. 
Thou marshal st me — the way — th't I was going, 
And — such — an instrument — I was to use. 
Mine eyes — are made the fools — o' the other senses, — 
Or else — worth — all the rest. I see thee — still; 
And — on thy blade and dudgeon — gouts of blood, — 
Which was not so — before. There's no such thing. 
It is — the bloody — business which informs 
Thus — to mine eyes. Now — o'er the one half world — 
Nature — seems dead, — and wicked dreams — abuse 
The curtaiivd sleep; witchcraft — celebrates 
Pale Hecate' s offerings; and withered murder, — 
Alarum 'd — by his sentinel, — (the wolf, 
Whose howls — his watch,) thus — with his stealthy pace, 
(With TarquirVs — ravishing strides,) toward his design 
Moves — like a ghost. Thou sure — and firm-set earth, 
Hear not — my steps, (which way — they walk,) — for fear — ■ 
The very stones — prate — of my whereabout, 
And take the present horror — from the time, 
Which wow — suits with it. Whiles / — threat — he — lives: 
Words— -to the heat of deeds— too cold breath gives. [A bell . ings. 


I go, — and it is done ; the bell — invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan; for — it is the knell — 

Th"t summons thee — to heaven, or — to hell! [Exit. 

Scene Second. Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady Macb. That — which hath made them — drunk — hath made me — bold; 
What — hath quench d — them — hath given me— fire. Hark I Peace I 
It was the owl — th't shriek'd, — the fatal — bellman — 
Which gives the stern st — good night. He — is about it. 
The doors — are open; and the surfeited grooms — 
Do mock their charge — with snores. I — have drugged — their possets, 
Th't death — and nature — do contend about them, 
"Whether they live — or — die. 

Macb. [Within.] Who's there? what, ho! 

Lady Macb. Alack ! I am afraid — they have awaked, — 
And 't is not done. The attempt, — (and not the deed,) — 
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers — ready; 
He — could not miss them. Had he not resembled 
My father — (as he slept) /had doneH. [Enter Macbeth. 

My husband! 

Macb. I have done — the deed. Did'st thou not hear a noise? 

Lady Macb. I heard the owl scream, — and the crickets cry. 
Did not y«u speak ? 

Macb. When ? 

Lady Macb. Now. 

Macb. As I descended? 

Lady Macb. Aye. 

Macb. Hark! 

Who — lies i' the second chamber ? 

Lady Macb. Donalbain. 

Macb. This — is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands. 

Lady Macb. A foolish thought, — to say — a sorry sight. 

Macb. There 's one — did laugh — in his sleep, — and one cried " murder ! " 
Th't they did wake each other: I stood — and heard them: 
But they did say their prayers, — and addressed them 
Again — to sleep. 

Lady Macb. There are two — lodged together. 

Macb. One — cried, — " God bless us ! " and — "Amen" — the other, 
As they had seen me, — with these hangman's hands. 
Listening — their fear, I — could not say, — amen, 
When they did say, — God bless us ! 

Lady Macb. Consider it not — so deeply. 

Macb. But wherefore— could not I — pronounce, — amen? 
I — had most need — of blessing, — and — amen — 
Stuck in my throat. 

Lady Macb. These deeds — must not be thought — 

After these ways ; so, — it will make us mad. 

Macb. Methought — I heard a voice — cry, — Sleep — no more ! 
Macbeth — does murder sleep ; the innocent sleep ; 


Sleep — tli't knits up the ravel d sleeve — of care, — 
The death — of each day's — life, — sore labor s bath, 
Balm — of hurt minds, — great nature's — second course, 
Chief nourisher — in life's feast. 

Lady Macb. What — do you mean ? 

Macb. Still — it cried, — " Sleep — no more ! " to all the house : 
" Glamis — hath murder' d sleep; and therefore — Cawdor — 
Shall sleep — no more ; Macbeth — shall sleep no more!" 

Lady Macb. Who was it — th't thus cried? Why, worthy thane, 
You do unbend — your noble strength — to think 
So brainsickly — of things. Go, — get some water, — 
And xoash — this filthy witness — from your hand. 
Why — did you bring these daggers — from the place ? 
They must lie there. Go, — carry them ; and smear 
The sleepy grooms — with blood. 

Macb. I '11 go — no more; 

I am afraid — to think — what — I have done: 
Look on 't — again — I dare not. 

Lady Macb. Infirm — of purpose 1 

• Give we — the daggers. The sleeping — and — the dead — 

Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood — 
Th't fears — & painted devil. If he — do bleed, — 
I '11 gild the faces — of the grooms withal; 
For — it must seem — their guilt. {Exit. Knocking within. 

Macb. Whence — is that knocking? 

How is't — with me, — when every noise — appalls me? 
"What hands — are here? Ha! they pluck out — mine eyes! 
"Will all great Neptune's ocean — wash — this blood — 
Clean — from my hand ? No; this — my hand — will — rather 
The multitudinous seas — incarnadine, 
Making — the green, — one — red. 

XXX.— KING HENRY VIII. Shakespeare. 

King. My life — itself, and the best heart of it, 
Thanks you — for this great care: I stood i' the level 
Of a /wW-charged confederacy, and give thanks 
To you — th't choked it. Let be called before us — 
That gentleman — of Buckingham's : — in person — 
I '11 hear him — his confessions justify; 
And — (point — by point) — the treasons of his master — 
He shall again relate. 
Enter Queen Katharine, with Duke of Norfolk, etc. She kneels. The king rises, 
takes her up, kisses her, and places her by him. 

Queen. Nay, we must longer kneel; I am a suitor. 

King. Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit — 
Never name to us ; you — have half our power; 
The other moiety, (ere you ask,) is given; 
Repeat your will, and take it. 


Queen. Thank your majesty. 

That you would love yourself ; and (in that love,) 
Not unconsidered — leave your honor, nor 
The dignity — of your office, — is the point 
Of my petition. 

King. Lady mine, — proceed. 

Queen. I am solicited, — {not — by a few, 
And those — of true condition,) th't your subjects — 
Are in great grievance : there have been commissions 
Sent down among them, which have flawed the heart — 
Of all their loyalties: — wherein, — (although,) 
My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches 
Most bitterly — on you,(&§. putter on 
Of these exactions,) yet the king our master, 

(Whose honor — Heaven — shield from soil!) even he — escapes not 
Language unmannerly, yea, — such — which breaks 
The sides of loyalty, and almost appears 
In loud rebellion. 

Norfolk. Not — almost appears, 

It doth appear: for, (upon these taxations,) — 
The clothiers all, (not able to maintain 
The many — to them 'longing,) have put off 
The spinsters, — carders, — fullers, — weavers, — who, 
( Unfit — for other life,) compell'd by hunger — 
And lack of other means, (in desperate manner — 
Daring — the event — to the teeth,) are all in uproar. 
And Danger — serves among them. 

King. Taxation ! 

Wherein ? and what taxation ? My lord cardinal, 
You — (that are blamed for it alike with us,) 
Know you — of this taxation ? 

Wolsey. Please you, sir, 

I know — but of a single part, in aught — 
Pertains to the state; and front — but in that file — 
Where others — tell steps with me. 

Queen. No, — (my lord,) 

You — know no more — than others : but — you — frame 
Things — th't are known — alike, which are not wholesome 
To those — which woidd not know them, — and yet — must — 
[Perforce) be their acquaintance. These exactions, 
(Whereof my sovereign — would have note,) — they are 
Most pestilent — to the hearing; and to bear them 
The back — is sacrifice — to the load. They say 
They are devised — by you ; or else you suffer — 
Too hard an exclamation. 

King. Still — exaction. 

The nature of it? — In what kind, (let 's know,) 
Is this exaction ? 

Queen. I am much too venturous — 


In Icmpiing — of your patience ; but am balden d — 

Under your promised pardon. The subject's grief — 

Comes through commissions, which compel — (from each) 

The sixth pari — of his substance to be levied — 

Without delay ; and — the pretense for this 

Is named, — your roars — in France. This — makes bold mouths, 

Tongues — spit their duties out; and cold hearts — freeze 

Allegiance in them : their curses — [now) 

Live — where their prayers did ; and — it 's come to pass, 

This tractable obedience — is a slave — 

To each incensed will. I would your highness — 

"Would give it quick consideration, for — 

There is no primer business. 

King. By my life ! 

This — is against our pleasure. 

Wolsey. And — for me, 

I have no further gone in this than by 
A single voice; and that — not pass' d t me — but 
By learned approbation — of the judges. If I am 
Traduced — by ignorant tongues, — which neither know 
My faculties — nor person, — yet — will be 
The chronicles — of my doing, — let me say — 
'T is but the fate — of place, — and the rough brake — 
Th'.t virtue — must go through. "We must not stint — 
Our necessary actions, — in the fear — 
To cope malicious censurers; which — ever, — 
As ravenous fishes, — do a vessel follow — 
Th't is new-trimmed; but benefit — no further — 
Than vainly — longing. "What we oft — do best, 
By sick interpreters, — (once — weak ones,) is 
Not ours, — or — not allow' d; what — worst, — [as oft)— 
Hitting a grosser quality, — is cried up — 
For our best act. If we shall stand still, 
In feai — our motion — will be rnock'd or carp 'd at, 
We should take root — here — where we sit, or — sit 
State statues — only. 

King. Things — done well, 

And — with a care, — exempt themselves from fear; 
Things — done — without example, — in their issue — 
Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent — 
Of this commission^ I believe — not any. 
We must not rend — our subjects — from our laws, 
And stick them — in our will. Sixth — part — of each? 
A trembling — contribution ? Why, — we take — 
(From every tree,) lop, bark, and part o' the timber; 
And, — though we leave it — with a root, (thus hack'd) 
The air — will drink the sap. To every county — 
(Where this is questioned) send our letters, with 
Free pardon — to each man — th't has denied 


The force — of this commission. Pray, — look to*t; 
I put it — to your care. 

Wolsey. [To the secretary.] A word with you. 
Let there be letters writ — to every shire 
Of the kings grace — and pardon. The grieved commons 
Hardly — conceive of me ; let it be noised 
Th't — (through our intercession) this revokement 
And pardon comes: I shall — [anon) advise you 
Further — in the proceeding. 


[77k? Queen comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.} 
Queen. Sir, — I desire you, — do me right — and justice ; 
And to bestow your pity on me: for — 
/ — am a most poor woman, and a stranger. — 
Born — out of your dominions ; having — here — 
~So judge — indifferent, — nor — no more assurance 
Of equal friendship — and proceeding. Alas, sir, 
In what — have I offended you? what cause — 
Hath my behavior — given to your displeasure ? 
Th't thus — you should proceed — to put me off, 
And take your good grace from me? Heaven — witness^ 
I have been to you — a true — and humble wife, 
At all times — to your will — conformable : 
Ever — in fear — to kindle your dislike; 
Yea, subject — to your countenance ; glad, — or sorry, 
As I sate it inclined. When — was the hour 
I ever — contradicted your desire, 

Or made it not mine — too ? Or which — of your friends — 
Have I not strove — to love, — although I knew — 
He were mine enemy ? What friend — of mine — 
That had — to him — derived your anger, — did I 
Continue — in my liking? Sir, call to mind 
Th't I have been your wife (in this obedience) 
Upward — of twenty years, and have been bless d — 
With many children by you. If, — in the course — 
And 2^'occss — of this time, — you can report, 
And prove it — too, — against mine honor — aught, 
My bond — to wedlock, — or my love — and duty, 
Against your sacred person, — in Gods name, 
Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt — 
Shut door upon me, and so — give me up 
To the sharpest kind of justice. Please you, sir, 
The king, — (your father.^) was reputed for 
A prince — most prudent, — of an excellent — 
And unmatched wit — and judgment : Ferdinand, 
My father, — (king of Spain,) was reckoned one 
The wisest prince, — th't there had reign d — by many 


A year before. It is not to be qucstion'd 

Th't they had gather' d a wise council to them 

Of every realm, th't did debate this business, 

Who deem'd our marriage — lawful. Wherefore — I humbly 

Beseech you, sir, — to spare me, till I may 

Be — by my friends — (in Spain) — advis'd; whose counsel 

I will implore; if not, i' the name — of God, — 

Your pleasure — be fulfilled ! 

Wolsey. You have here, {lady,) 

(And — of your choice,) these reverend fathers; men — 
Of singular — integrity — and learning, 
Yea, the elect — of the land, who are assembled — 
To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless, 
Th't longer — you desire the court; as well — 
For your own quiet as to rectify — 
"What is unsettled — in the king. 

Campeius. His grace— 

Hath spoken well, — and justly : therefore, (madam,) — 
It's fit — this royal session — do proceed; 
And th't, (without delay,) their arguments — 
Be now produced — and heard. 

Queen. Lord cardinal, — 

To you — I speak. 

Wolsey. Your pleasure, — madam ? 

Queen. Sir, — 

I am about to weep; but, thinking th't 
"We are a queen, (or long — have dream 1 d so,) certain 
The daughter — of a king, — my drops — of tears — 
I'll turn — to sparks — of fire. 

Wolsey. Be patient — yet. 

Queen. I will, when you- — are humble; nay, — before, 
Or God — will punish me. I do believe, 
(Induced — by potent circumstances,) that 
You — are mine enemy; and make my challenge — 
You shall not — be my judge : for it is you — 
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord — and me, 
(Which God's dew — quench!) Therefore I say again, 
I utterly — abhor, — yea, from my soul — 
Refuse you — for my judge: whom, yet — (once more,) — 
I hold — my most malicious foe, — and think not — 
(At all) — a friend to truth. 

Wolsey. I do profess, 

You speak not — like yourself ; who ever — yet — 
Have stood to charity, — and display'd the effects — ■ 
Of disposition gentle, — and of wisdom — 
O'ertopping — woman's power. Madam, — you do me wrong: 
I have no spleen — against you; nor injustice — 
For you, — or any: how far — I have proceeded, 
Or — how far— further shall, is warranted — 


By a commission — from the consistory, 

Yea, the whole consistory — of Rome. You charge me — 

Th't /have blown this coal: I do deny it: 

The king — is present : if it be known to him — 

Th't I gainsay my deed, — how may he wound, — 

(And worthily,) my falsehood? yea, as much — 

As you — have done my truth. If he know — 

Th't I am free — of your report, — he knows 

I am not — of your wrong. Therefore in him 

It lies — to cure me: and the cure is, — to 

Remove these thoughts from you : the which — before 

His highness — shall speak in, I do beseech 

You, (gracious madam) — to unthink — your speaking, — 

And to say so — no more. 

Queen. My lord, — my lord, — 

I am a simple woman, — much — too weak — 

To oppose your cunning. You're meek — and humble-mouthed; 
You sign your place — and calling— [in full seeming) 
"With meekness — and humility: but your heart — 
Is cramm'd with arrogancy,— spleen, and pride. 
You have, (by fortune — and his highness 1 favors,) — 
Gone slightly — o'er low steps; and now — are mounted 
Where powers — are your retainers ; and your words, — 
(Domestics to you,) serve your will — as 't please 
Yourself — pronounce their office. I must tell you, — 
You tender more — your person's honor than 
Your high profession spiritual; th't again — 
I do refuse you — for my judge ; and here, 
(Before you all,) appeal — unto the pope, 
To bring my whole cause — 'fore his holiness, 
And to hejudg'd — by him. 

[She courtesies to the King, and offers to depart. 

Cam. The queen — is obstinate, 

Stubborn — to justice, — apt — to accuse it, and 
Disdainful — to be tried by it; 't is not well. 
She 's going away. 

King. Call her again. 

Crier. Katharine, — (queen of England,) — come into the court. 

Grif. Madam — you are call'd back. 

Queen. What need you — note it ? pray you, keep your way : 
When you are call'd return. Now — the Lord help ; 
They vex me — past my patience ! Pray you, — pass on : — 
I will not tarry: no, nor ever — more — 
(Upon this business) — my appearance make 
In any — of their courts. [Exeunt Queen, Griffith, etc. 

King. Go thy ways, — Kate : 

That man — i' the world who shall report he has 
A better wife, — let him — in nought — be trusted, 
For speaking false — in that. Thou art, alone, 


If thy rare qualities, — sweet ge7itle?iess, — 

Thy meekness — satnt-like, — wife-Yike government, — 

Obeying — in commanding, — and thy parts — 

(Sovereign — and pious — else,) — could speak thee out, 

The queen — of earthly queens. She's noble — born; 

And, (like her true nobility,) she has 

Carried herself toward me. 


My beautiful ! my beautiful ! 

That standest meekly by, 
"With thy -proxioWy -arched — and glossy neck, 

Thy dark — and fiery eye, — 
Fret not — to roam the desert — now, 

"With all thy winged speed ; 
I may not mount on thee — again: 

Thou'rt sold, — my Ar'ab steed! 

Fret not — with that impatient hoof; 

Snuff not — the breezy wind; 
The farther th't thou fiiest — now, 

So far — am J — behind. 
The stranger — hath thy bridle-rein, 

Thy master — hath his gold : 
JYee^-limbed — and beautiful— farewell ! 

Thou'rt sold, (my steed,) thou'rt soldi 

Farewell ! those free — untired limbs 

Full many a mile — must roam, 
To reach the chill — and wintry sky, 

"Which clouds — the stranger s home: 
Some other hand, — less fond, must now 

Thy corn — and bread — prepare; 
Thy silky mane — I braided — once 

Must be another's care. 

The morning sun — shall dawn again; 

But neva — more with thee 
Shall /gallop — through the desert paths, 

Where we — were wont to be. 
Evening — shall darken — on the earth, 

And o'er the sandy plain 
Some other steed, with slower step, 

Shall bear me home again. 

Yes, thou must go ! the wild — free breeze, 

The brilliant sun and sky, 
Thy masters house, — from all of these 

My exiled one — must fly. 
Thy proud — dark eye — will grow less proud, 

Thy step — become less fleet, 
And vainly — shalt thou arch thy neck 

Thy master's hand — to meet. 


Only — in sleep — shall I behold 

That dark eye — glancing bright; 
Only — in sleep — shall hear again 

That step — so firm — and light; 
And when I raise— my dreaming arm 

To check — or cheer — thy speed, 
Then must I, (starting,) wake — to feel — 

Thou'rt sold, — my Arab steed! 

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, 

Some cruel hand — may chide 
Till /oam-wreaths lie, (like crested waves,) 

Along thy panting side; 
And the rich blood th't : s in thee swells 

In the indignant pain, 
Till careless eyes (which rest on thee) 

May count — each starting vein. 

Will they ill use thee? If I thought— 

But no, it can not be, — 
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, 

So gentle, yet so free. 
And yet if haply, when thou 'rt gone, 

My lonely heart — should yearn, 
Can the same hand which casts thee off 

Command thee — to return ? 

Return? Alas ! my Arab steed, 

What — shall thy master do 
When thou, (who wert his all of joy,) 

Hast vanished — from his view ? 
Where the dim distance — cheats mine eye t 

And (through the gathering tears) 
Thy bright form (for a moment) like 

The false mirage — appears. 

Slow and unmounted — will I roam, 

With weary foot alone, 
Where-, (with fleet step — and joyous bound,) 

Thou oft — hast borne me on ; 
And, (sitting down — by that green well,) 

Will pause and sadly think, 
'T was here — he bowed — his glossy neck 

When last — I saw him drink. 

When last — I saw him — drink ! Away ? 

The fevered dream — is o'er; 
I could not live a day — and know — 

That we should meet — no more. 
They tempted me, — my beautifid 1 

For hunger's power — is strong ; 
They tempted me, — my beautiful ! 

But I have loved — too long. 


Who 9aid — th't I had given thee up? 

Who said — th't thou wert sold? 
'T is false! 't is false! my Arab steed! 

I fling them back — their gold. 
Thus, — thus — I leap — upon thy back, 

And scow — the distant plains : 
Away! who — overtakes us — now 

Shall claim thee — for his pains ! 


Coining the heart, brain, and sinew (to gold,) 

Till we sink — (in the dark) on the pauper's dole, 
Feeling — (for ever) — the flowerless mold 

Growing — about the uncrowned soul ! 
O God! God! must this — [evermore) — he 
The lot — of the children of poverty ? 

The spring — is calling from brae — and bower, 

In the twinkling sheen — of the sunny hour, 
Earth smiles — in her golden — green; 
Glad — as the bird — in tree-tory — chanting 

Its anthem — of liberty ! 
With its heart — in its musical gratitude panting, 

And oh, 'tis a bliss — to be! 
Once more — to drink in — the fo/e-breathing air, 

Lapt — in luxurious flowers — 
To recall again — the pleasures — that were 

In infancy's — innocent hours, — 
To wash the ear^A-stains — and the dust — from my soul 

In nature's reviving tears once more; 
To feast — at her banquet, — and drink — from her bowl — 

Rich dew — for the hearts hot core. 
Ah me ! ah me ! it is heavenly — then, 

And hints — of the spirit-world, — (near — alway,) 
Are stirring — and stirred at my heart again, 

Like leaves — to the kiss — of May : 
It is — but a dream, — yet — 't is passing sweet, 

And when — (from its spells) — my spirit — is waking, 
Dark — as my heart, and the wild tears start ; 

For I — was not made — (merely) — for money-making. 

My soul — leaneth out — to the whisperings 

Of the mighty, — the marvelous spirits — of old; 
And heaven-ward soareth — to strengthen her wings, 

When labor — relapseth — its earthly hold; 
And — (breathless — with awfullest beauty) — it listens — 

To catch the nights — deep, — starry mystery ; 
Or in mine eyes, (dissolved,) glistens 

Big — for the moan — of humanity. 


Much — that is written — within its chamber, 
Much — th't is shrined — in the mind's living amber, 

Much — of this thought of mine. 
There 's music below — in the glistening leaves, 
There 's music above, — and heaven's blue bosom heaves 

The silvery clouds between ; 
The boughs of the woodland — are nodding — (in play,) 
And wooingly — beckon my spirit away ; — 

I hear — the dreamy hum 
Of bees — in the lime-tree, and birds — on the spray; 
And they — (too) — are calling my thinking away ; 

But I can not — can not come. 
Vision — of verdant — and heart-cooling places — 

"Will steal on my soul — like a golden spring-rain. 
Bringing the lost light — of brave — vanished faces, 

Till all my life — blossoms with beauty again. 
But oh, for a glimpse — of the floioer-ldiden morning, 

Th't makes the heart — leap up, and knock at heaven's door! 
Oh, for the green lane, the green field, the green wood, 

To take in (by heart/ids) their greenness — once more ! 
How I yearn — to lie down — in the lush-flower' d meadoics, 
And nestle — in leaves — and the sleep — of the shadows, 

Where violets — (in the cool gloom) — are awaking, 
There — let my soul — burst — from its cavern of clay, 
To float down the warm spring, — away — and away! 

For I — was not made (merely) for money-making. 

At my wearisome task — I oftentimes — turn 

From my bride and my wearisome monitress — (Duty,) 
Forgetting the strife — and the wrestle of life, 

(To talk — with the spirit of beauty.) 
The midtitude's hum, and the chinking of gold, 

Grow hush — as the dying day, — 
For — on wings — (pulsing music,) with joy untold, 

My heart — is up — and away! 
I fain would struggle — and give to birth; 
For I would not pass away from earth — 

And make no sign ! 
I yearn to utter — what might live on 
In the world's heart when I am gone. 
I — would not plod on (like these slaves of gold, 

Who shut up their souls in a dusky cave:) 
I would see the world better and nobler-souVd, 

Ere I dream of heaven — in my green turf-grave. 
I may toil till my life — is fill'd with dreariness, — 
Toil — 'till my heart — is a wreck in its iveariness, 
Toil — for ever for &a?*-steep'd bread, 
Till I go down — to the silent dead. 
But — by this yearning, — this hoping, — this achmg, 
I — was not made merely — for money-making. 



Heaven — hath its crown of stars, the earth 

Her glory-robe — of flowers, — 
The sea — its gems, — the grand old woods 

Their songs — and greening showers : 
The birds — have homes, — where leaves and blooms — 

In beauty — wreathe above; 
High — yearning hearts — their rainbow — dreams, — 

And we, (sweet,) we — have love. 

"We walk not — with the jewel'd great, 

Where love's dear name — is sold; 
Yet — have we wealth — we would not give — 

For all — their world — of gold! 
We — revel not — in corn — and wine, — 

Yet — have we — (from above) — 
Manna — divine, — and — we '11 not pine : 

Do we not live — and love ? 

There 's sorrow — for the toiling poor, 

On misery's bosom — nurs'd; 
Rich robes — for ragged souls, — and crowns 

For branded brows — Cain-curs' d ! 
But cherubim, (with clasping wings,) 

Ever — about us be, 
And happiest — of God's happy things, 

There 's love — for you — and me. 

Thy lips, (th't kiss — till death,) have turn'd 

Life's water — into wine ; 
The sweet life — (melting — through thy looks) 

Hath made my life — divine. 
All — love's dear promise — hath been kept 

Since thou — to me — wert given ; 
A ladder — for my soid to climb, 

And summer high — in heaven. 

I know, — (dear heart!) th't — (in our lot,) 

May mingle — tears — and sorrow; 
But — loves — rich rainbow's built from tears — 

To-day, with smiles — to-morrow. 
The sunshine — from our sky — may die, — 

The greenness — from life's tree, — 
But evo — ('mid the warring storm) 

Thy nest — shall shelter' d be. 

I see thee ! Arrarat — of my life, 

Smiling — the waves above ! 
Thou hail'st me — victor — in the strife, 

And beacon' st me — with love; 


The world — may never know, — (dear heart,) 

What — I have found — in thee ; 
But, tho' naught — to the world, [dear heart,) 

Thou 'rt all — the world — to me. 


Behold, an idle tale — they tell, 

And who — shall blame their telling it ? 
The rogues — have got their cant — to sell, 

The world — pays well — for selling it ! 
They say — the world 's a desert drear, — 

Still — plagued — with Egypt's blindness ! 
Th't we were sent — to suffer here ; — 

What ! by a God of kindness ? 
Th't — since the world — has gone astray, 

It must be so for ever, — 
And we should stand still, and obey — 

Its desolators. Never ! 
We '11 labor for the better time 

With all our might — of press — and pen ; 
Believe me, 't is a truth sublime, 

God's world — is worthy — better men. 

With Paradise — the world began, 

A world of love — and gladness : 
Its beauty — may be marr'd — by man — 

With all his crime — and madness, — 
Yet — 't is a brave world — still. Love — brings 

A sunshine — for the dreary ; 
With all our strife — sweet rest — hath wings—* 

To fold o'er hearts — a,-weary. 
The sun — in glory, (like a god,) 

To-day — climbs up — heaven's bosom, — 
The flowers — (upon the jewel'd sod) 

In sweet Zoue-lessons — blossom, 
As radiant — of immortal youth — j 

And beauty — as in Eden; then 
Believe me, 't is a noble truth, 

Gods world — is worthy better men. 

Oh, — they are bold — knaves, — over-bold, 

Who say — we are doom'd to anguish : 
Th't man, — (in God's own image — souVd,) 

Like hell-bound slaves — must languish. 
Probe nature's heart — to its red core, 

There 's more of good — than evil; 
And man, — down-trammed man, — is more 

Of angel — than of devil. 


" Prepare — to die ? *' Prepare to live ! 

"We know not — what is — living: 
And let us — (for the world*? good) — give, 

As God — is ever giving. 
Give action,, — thought, — love, — wealth, — and time, 

To win the primal age — again; 
Believe me, — H is a truth — sublime, 

Gods world — is worthy — better men. 


The lark — has sung his carol — in the shy ; 

The bees — have hummed — their wotm-tide harmony; 

Still — in the vale — the village-beWs — ring round; 

Still — in Llewellyn-ball — the jests — resound: 

For now — the caudle-cwp — is circling there, 

Now — (glad at heart) — the gossips — breathe their prayer, 

And — (crowding,) stop the cradle — to admire 

The babe, — the sleeping image — of his sire. 

A few — short years, and then — these sounds — shall hail 
The day again, — and gladness — fill the vale; 
So soon — the child — a youth, — the youth — a man, 
Eager — to run the race — his father ran. 
Then — the huge ox — shall yield — the broad surloin; 
The ale, — {new brewed,) — in floods of amber shine; 
And — (basking — in the chimney's ample blaze,) 
Mid many a tale — told of his childish days, 
The nurse shall cry, — (of all her ills — beguiled,) 
<; *T was on these knees — he sat so oft, — and smiled. 11 

And now — again — shall music — swell the breeze; 
Soon. — (issuing forth,) shall glitter — (through the trees) — 
Vestures — of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
And violets — scattered round ; and old — and young, — 
In every — cottage-porch, — (with garlands green,) 
Stand still — to gaze, — and — (gazing) — bless the scene; 
While, (her dark eyes — downcast,) — by his side, — 
Moves, — (in virgin veil,) the gentle bride. 

And once, — alas ! nor — in a distant hour, 
Another voice shall come — from yonder tower ; 
When — (in dim chambers) — long black weeds are seen, 
And vseepiiigs heard — where onl y joy — has been; 
When — (by his children borne,) and — from his door — 
Slowly departing, — to return — no more, 
He rests — in holy earth — with them — th't went before. 


Onward — (amid the copse 'gan peep) 
A narrow inlet — still — and deep ! 
Allowing scarce — such breadth of brim 
As served the wild duck's brood — to swim: 


Lost — (for a space,) through thickets veering, 

But broader — when again appearing. 

Tall rocks — and tufted knolls — their face 

Could — (on the dark mirror) trace! 

And farther — (as the hunter stray 'd) — 

Still broader sweep — its channels made. 

The shaggy mounds — no longer stood 

Emerging — from the tangled wood, 

But — (wave-encircled,) seemed to float 

Like castle — girdled with its moat; 

Yet broader floods — (extending still) — 

Divide them — from their parent hill, — 

Till each, — (retiring,) — claims to be 

An islet — in an inland sea ! 

And now, — (to issue — from the glen,) 

No pathway — meets the wanderer's ken, — 

Unless he climb, — with footing nice, 

A far-projecting precipice! 

The broom's tough roots — his ladder made, 

The hazle saplings — lent their aid ; 

And thus — an airy point he won, 

"Where, — (gleaming — with the setting sun,) 

One burnished sheet — of living gold, 

Lock Katrine lay — beneath him rolled ! 

In all her length — (far winding) lay — 

"With promontory, — creek, — and bay, — 

And islands — th't, (empurpled bright 

Floated — amid the livelier light ; 

And mountains — th't — (like giants stand) 

To sentinel — enchanted land. 

High — (on the south) huge Ben-venue — 

Down to the lake — (in masses) threw 

Crags, — knolls, — and mounds confusedly — hurled, 

The fragments — of an earlier world. 

A wildering forest — feathered o'er 

His ruined sides — and summit hoar, 

"While — (on the north,) through middle air,— 

Ben-an heaved high — his forehead bare. 


Let us lift up the curtain, — and observe 

"What passes — in that chamber. Now — a sigh, — 

And now — a groan — is heard. Then — all — is still. 

Twenty — are sitting — as in judgment — there ; 

Men — who have served their country, — and grown gray — 

In governments — and distant embassies; — 

Men — eminent — alike — in war — and peace ; 

Such — as — (in effigy) — shall long — adorn 


The walls of Venice — to show — what she was. 
Their garb — is black, — and black — the arras is, — 
And sad — the general aspect. Yet their looks — 
Are calm — and cheerful, — nothing there — like grief. 
Nothing — or harsh — or cruel. Still — that noise, 
Th't low — and dismal moaning. 

Half withdrawn, — 
(A little to the left,) — sits one — in crimson, — 
A venerable man,— fourscore — and five. 
Cold drops of sweat — stand on his furrowed brow; 
His hands — are clenched; his eyes — hsdf-shut and glazed; 
His shrunk — and withered limbs — rigid — as marble. 
'T is Foscaki, — the Doge. And there is one, — 
(A young man,) — lying — at his feet, stretched out 
In torture. 'T is his son. 'T is Giacomo, — 
His only joy, — (and has he — lived for this?) 
Accused — of murder. Yesternight — the proofs, — 
(If proofs — they be,) were in the lion's mouth 
Dropt — by some hand unseen; and — he — {himself) 
Must sit — and look — on a beloved son — 
Suffering — the question. 

Twice — to die in peace, — 
To save, — (while yet be could,) — a falling house, — 
And turn the hearts — of his fell adversaries, — 
Those — who had now, — (like hell-hounds — in full cry,) 
Chased down his last — of four : twice — did he ask 
To lay aside the crown, — and they — refused, — 
An oath exacting, — never — more — to ask : 
And there — he sits, — a spectacle of woe, — 
Condemned, — (in bitter mockery,) to icear 
The bauble — he had sighed for. 

Once — again — 
The screw — is turned ; and as it turns the son 
Looks up, — and (in a faint — and broken tone) 
Murmurs — " My father ! " The old man — shrinks back,- 
And — (in his mantle) muffles up his face. 
"Art thou not guilty?" says a voice — th't once — 
"Would greet the sufferer — (long before they met,) — 
"Art thou — not guilty?" — " No I Indeed, — I am not!" 
But all — is unavailing. In that court — 
Groans — are confessions ; patience, — fortitude, — 
The work of magic: and — released, — revived — 
For condemnation — from his father's lips, — 
He hears — the sentence, — "Banishment — to Candia. 
Death — if he leaves it." And the bark — sets sail, 
And he is gone — from all he loves — in life! 
Gone — in the dead of night — unseen — of any, — 
"Without a word, — a look of tenderness, 
To be called up — when, — (in his lonely hours,) 


He would indulge in weeping. Like a ghost, — 

(Day — after day, — year — after year,) — he haunts 

An ancient rampart — th't o'erhangs the sea; 

Gazing on vacancy, — and hourly — there 

(Starting — as from some wild — and uncouth dream) 

To answer to the watch. Alas! how changed — 

(From him,) — the mirror — of the youth of Venice ; 

"Whom — (in the slightest thing,) — or whim, — or chance, — 

Did he but wear his doublet — so — and so, 

All followed: at whose nuptials, — when he won 

That maid — at once — the noblest, — -fairest, — best, — 

A daughter of the house — th't now, — (among 

Its ancestors — in monumental brass,) 

Numbers eight Doges, — to convey her home — 

The Ift^-centaur — went forth ; and thrice — the sun — 

Shone on the chivalry — th't front — to front, — 

And blaze — on blaze — reflecting, — met — and ranged 

Ho tourney — in St. Mark's. Butlo! at last — 

Messengers — come. He is recalled : his heart — 

Leaps — at the tidings. He embarks : the boat 

Springs to the oar, — and back again — he goes — 

Into that very chamber ! There — to lie 

In his old i'esting-jpla,ce, — the bed of steel ; 

And thence — look up — (five long — long years of grief — 

Have not killed either) on his wretched sire, — 

Still in that seat — as though he had not stirred; 

Immovable — and muffled in his cloak. 

But now — he comes — convicted of a crime — 
Great — by the laws of Venice. Night — and day — 
Brooding — on what he had been, — what he was, — ■ 
'T was more — than he could bear. His longing fits 
Thickened upon him. His desire — for home 
Became a madness; and (resolved to go — 
If but to die,) — in his despair, — he writes 
A letter — to the sovereign prince of Milan, 
(To him — whose name — among the greatest now — 
Had perished, — blotted out — at once — and razed — 
But for the rugged limb — of an old oak), 
Soliciting his influence — with the state, — 

And drops it — to be found " Would ye know all $ 

I have transgressed, — offended willfully ; 
And am prepared to suffer — as I ought. 
But let me, — let me, if but for an hour, — 
(Ye must consent, — for all of you — are sons,— 
Most of you husbands — fathers,) let me— -first 
Indulge the natural feelings — of a man, — 
And (ere I die, — if such — my sentence be,) — 
Press to my heart, — ('t is all — I ask of you,) 
My wife, — my children, — and my aged mother, — 
Say, is she yet — alive ? " 


Ho is condemned 
To go — ere set of sun, — go — whence he came, — 
A banished man, and for a year — to breathe 
The vapor — of a dungeon. But his prayer — 
(What could they less?) is granted. 

In a hall — 
Open— and croioded — by a common herd, — 
'T was there — a wife — and her four so?is — yet young, — 
A mother — borne along, — life — ebbing fast, 
And an old Doge, — mustering his strength — in vain, — 
Assembled now — (sad privilege /) to meet 
One — so long lost, one — who — for them — had braved, 
For them — had sought — death, — and yet worse than death! 
To meet him, — and to part with him— forever ! 
Time — arid their wrongs — had changed them all, — him — most! 
Yet — when the wife, — the mother — looked again, 
7 T was he, — 'twas he himself, — 'twas Giacomo! 
And all clung round him, — weeping — bitterly ; 
"Weeping the more — because they wept in vain. 

Unnerved, — and now — unsettled in his mind — 
From long — and exquisite pain, — he sobs — and cries, — 
Kissing the old man's cheek, — " Help me, — my father ! 
Let me, — (I pray thee,) live once more — among ye: 
Let me go home." " My son," — (returns the Doge,) — 
" Obey. Thy country— wills it." 

That night — embarked; sent — to an early grave — 
For one, — whose dying words, — " The deed — was — mine I 
He — is most innocent ! 'T was I — who did it ! " 
Came — when he — slept in peace. The ship (th't sailed 
Swift as the winds — with his deliverance) — 
Bore back — a lifeless corpse. Generous — as brave, — 
Affection, — kindness, — the sweet offices 
Of duty — and love — were — (from his tenderest years) 
To him — as needfid — as his daily bread; 
And — to become a by-word — in the streets, — 
Bringing a stain — on those — who gave him life, 
And those — alas! now — worse — than fatherless; — 
To be proclaimed a ruffian, — a night-st&bhav ; — 
He — on whom none — before — had breathed reproach, — 
He lived — but to disprove it. That hope — lost, — 
Death followed. Oh! injustice — be in heaven, 
A day must come — of ample retribution I 

Then — was thy cup, — {old man,)— full — to the brim, 
But thou wert yet — alive ; and there was one, — 
The soul — and spring — of all that enmity. — 
Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank, — 
Hungering — and thirsting — still — unsatisfied ; 
One — of a name — illustrious — as thine own ! 


One — of the ten! one of the invisible three! 
'Twaa Soredaxo. When the whelps — were gone, — 
He — would dislodge the lion — from his den; 
And (leading on the 2> ac k — ne long had led, — 
The miserable pack — th"t ever howled — 
Against fallen greatness,) moved — that Foscari — 
Be Doge — no longer ; urging his great age ; 
Calling the loneliness of grief — neglect 
Of duty, — sullenness — against the laws. 
" I am most willing — to retire," said he ; 
u But I have sworn, — and can not — of myself. 
Do with me — as ye please.*' He was deposed, 
He — who had reigned so long — and gloriously; 
His ducal bonnet — taken from his brow, — 
His robes stript off, — his seal — and signet-ring — 
Broken — before him. But now — nothing — moved 
The meekness — of his soul. All things — alike ! 
Among the six — th't came with the decree — 
Foscari — saw one — he knew not, — and inquired 
His name. "I am the son — of Marco Memmo." 
11 Ah! " (he replied,) "thy father — was my friend." 

And now — he goes. " It is the hour — and past. 
I have no business here." " But wilt thou not 
Avoid the gazing crowd? That way — is private: 1 
"No! as — I entered — so — will I retire."' 
And (leaning on his staff,) he left the house, — 
His residence — for five-and-thirty years,) — 
By the same stairs — up which — he came in state; 
Those — where the giants stand, (guarding the ascent,) 
Monstrous — terrific. At the foot — he stopt, — 
And (on his staff — still leaning.) turned — and said, — 
" By mine own merits — did I come. I go — 
Driven — by the malice — of mine enemies!' 
Then — to his boat withdrew, — (poor — as he cayne,) — 
Amid the sighs — of those — th't dared not speak. 

This journey — was his last. "When the bell rang — 
(At dawn,) — announcing a new Doge to Venice, 
It found him — on his knees — before the cross, — 
Clasping his aged hands — in earnest prayer; 
And there — he died. Ere half its task was done — 
It rang his knell. 

But whence — the deadly hate 
Th't caused all this, — the hate of Soredano ? 
It was a legacy — his father left, — 
"Who (but — for Foscari) had reigned in Venice, 
And (like the venom — in the serpents bag) 
Gathered — and grew ! Nothing — but turned to hate ! 
In vain — did Foscari — supplicate for peace, — 
Offering — (in marriage) his fair Isabel. 


He changed not, — with a dreadful piety — 
Studying revenge; listening to those — alone — 
"Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand — 
Those — in their zeal, (and none — was wanting — there), 
"Who came — to tell him of another wrong — 
Done — or imagined. "When his father died, 
They whispered,— ("'T was by poison,") and the words 
Struck him — as uttered from his father's grave. 
He wrote it — on the tomb, — ('tis there — in marble,) 
And, — (with a brow of care most merchant-like,) 
Among the debtors — in his leger-book, 
Entered at full, — (nor month — nor day — forgot,) 
" Francesco — Foscari, — for — my father's death, 1 ' 
Leaving a blank — to be filled up — hereafter. 
"When Foscari 1 s — noble heart — at length — gave way, 
He took the volume — from the shelf again 
Calmly, — and (with his pen) filled up the blank, — 
Inscribing — "He has paid me." 
Ye who sit — 
Brooding — from day — to day, — from day to day 
Chewing — the bitter cud, — and starting up — 
As though the hour — was come — to whet your fangs, 
And, (like the Pisan,) gnaw the hairy scalp 
Of him — who had offended, — (if ye must,) — ■ 
Sit — and brood on; but oh! forbear — to teach 
The lesson — to your children. 


It was St. Marjr's Eve; and all poured forth — 
For some great festival. The fisher — came 
From his green islet, — bringing o'er the waves — 
His wife — and little ones ; the husbandman — 
From the firm land, — with many a friar — and nun — 
And village maiden, — (her first flight — from home,) 
Crowding — the common ferry. All — arrived; 
And — (in his straw) the prisoner — turned to hear, 
So great — the stir — in Venice. Old — and young — 
Thronged — her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,— 
(Turbaned, — long-vested,) and the cowering Jew, — 
(In yellow hat — and threadbare gabardine,) 
Hurrying along. For, — (as the custom was,) 
The noblest sons and daughters — of the state, 
("Whose names — are written in the Book of Gold,) — 
Were — (on that day) to solemnize — their nuptials. 
At noon — a distant murmur (through the crowd, — 
Rising — and rolling on,) — proclaimed them near, 
And never — (from their earliest hour) — was seen 
Such splendor — or such beauty. Two — and two 


(The richest tapestry — unrolled before them;) 
First — came the brides; each — in virgin-veti, — 
Nor unattended — by her bridal maids, 
The two — th't — (step— by step) behind her — bore 
The small — but precious caskets — th't contained 
The dower y — and the presents. On she moved — 
In the sweet seriousness — of virgin — youth ; 
Her eyes — cast down, — and holding in her hand 
A fan — (that gently waved) of ostrich-plumes. 
Her veil, — (transparent — as the gossamer,) — 
Fell — from beneath a starry diadem; 
And on her dazzling neck — a jewel shone, 
(Ruby, — or diamond, — or dark amethyst,) 
A jeweled chain, — in many a winding wreath, 
"Wreathing her gold brocade. 

Before the church, — 
(That venerable structure, — now — no more,) 
On the sea-brink, — another train they met, — 
No strangers, — nor unlooked for — ere they came,—' 
(Brothers — to some, — still dearer — to the rest,) 
Each — (in his hand) bearing his cap and plume, — 
And (as he walked, — with modest dignity,) 
Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate — 
They join, and slowly — up the bannered aisle, — 
(Led by the choir,) — with due solemnity — 
Range round the altar. In his vestments — there — 
The Patriarch stands ; and (while the anthem flows) — 
Who — can look unmoved — the dream of years — 
Just now— fulfilling. Here a mother weeps, — 
Eejoicing — in her daughter. There — a son 
Blesses the day — th't is to make her his; 
While she — shines forth — through all her ornament, 
Her beauty — heightened by her hopes — and fears. 

At length — the rite — is ending. All — fall down, — 
All — of all ranks; and (stretching out his hands — 
^os^e-like,) the holy man — proceeds 
To give the blessing — (not a stir — or breath;) 
When — (hark!) a din of voices — from without, — 
And shrieks — and groans — and outcries — as in battle! 
And lo ! the door is burst, the curtain rent, — 
And armed ruffians, — (robbers — from the deep, 
Savage — uncouth, — led on — by Bakbekigo — 
And his six brothers — in their coats of steel,) — 
Are standing — on the threshold! Statue-Yike — 
Awhile — they gaze — on the fallen multitude, — 
Each — with his saber up, — in act to strike ; 
Then, — as at once — recovering from the spell, 
Bush forward — to the altar, — and as soon — 
Are gone again, — (amid no clash of arms,) 


Bearing away the maidens — and the treasures. 
Where — are they now? — plowing the distant waves, — 
Their sails — outspread, and given to the wind, — 
They — (on their decks) triumphant. On — they speed, 
Steering — for Istria ; their accursed barks — 
("Well — are they known, — the galliot — and the galley)— 
Freighted — [alas !) with all — that life endears ! 
The richest argosies — were poor — to them ! 

Now — hadst thou seen — (along that crowded shore) 
The matrons — running — wild, — their festal dress 
A strange — and moving contrast — to their grief; 
And through the city, — (wander where thou would'st,) 
The men — half-armed — and arming — every where, — 
As roused from slumber — by the stirring trump ; 
One — with a shield, — one — with a casque — or spear; 
One — with an axe — severing in two — the chain 
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft — a plank 
But — (on that day) was afloat. But — long before, 
{Frantic — with grief, and scorning — all control,) 
The youths — were gone — in a light brigantine 
(Lying at anchor — near the arsenal; 
Each — having sioorn, (and — by the Holy Word,) 
To slay — or be slain. And — (from the tower) — 
The watchman — gives the signal. In the east — 
A ship is seen, — and making for the fort; 
Her flag — St. Mark's. And novo — she turns the point, 
Over the waters — like a sea-bird — flying ! 
Ha ! 't is the same, — 't is theirs ! from stem — to prow — 
Green — with victorious wreaths, she comes — to bring — 
All — that was lost. Coasting — (with narrow search) 
Friali,— (like a tiger — in his spring^) — 
They had surprised — the corsair — where they lay — 
Sharing the spoil — in blind security, 
And sharing lots, — had slain them, one — and all, — 
All — to the last, — and flung them — far — and wide — 
Into the sea, — their proper element; 
Him — -first,— as fiist — in rank, whose name — so long — 
Had hushed — the babes of Venice, and who yet, — 
Breathing a little, — in his look — retained 
The fierceness — of his soul. Thus — were the brides — 
Lost — and recovered; and what now — remained — 
But to give thanks? Twelve — breast-plntcs and twelve- 
By the young victors — to their patron-saint — 
Vowed — in the field, inestimable gifts, 
Flaming with gems— and gold,— were — (in due time) 
Seen at his feet. And ever — to preserve 
The memory — of a day — so full of change, 
(From joy — to grief r — from grief — to joy again,) 
Through many an age, — as oft — as it came round, 



'T was held— religiously. The Doge — resigned 
His crimson — for pure ermine, — visiting — 
(At earliest dawn) St. Mary's — silver shrine; 
And through the city (in a stately barge 
Of gold) — were borne, — (with songs and symphonies,) 
Twelve ladies,— young — and noble. Clad they were — 
In bridal white, — with bridal ornaments, 
Each — in her glittering veil ; and — on the deck, 
(As on a burnished throne,) they glided by ; 
No window — or balcony — but adorned 
"With hangings — of rich texture, — not a roof — 
But covered with beholders, — and the air — 
Vocal — with Joy. Onward they went, — their oars- 
Moving in concert — with the harmony, — 
Through the Rialto — to the Ducal palace, — 
And — at a banquet — served with honor there 
Sat,— representing — (in the eyes of all, 
Eyes — not unmet, I ween, with grateful tears,) — ■ 
Their lovely ancestors, — the Brides of Venice ! 


The seal — is set. Now — welcome, — thou dread power ! 

Nameless, — yet thus — omnipotent, — which here 

"Walk'st in the shadow — of the midnight hour — 

"With a deep awe, yet all — distinct from fear : 

Thy haunts — are ever — where the dead walls rear 

Their ivy mantles, — and the solemn scene — 

Derives from thee — a sense — so deep — and clear 

Th't we — become apart — of what has been, 
And grow — unto the spot, — a^-seeing but — unseen. 

And here — the buzz of eager nations ran 

In murmured pity — or — foi^-roared applause, 

As man — was slaughtered — by his fellow-man ! 

And wherefore — slaughtered? wherefore, — but because 

Such — were the bloody circus 1 — genial laws, 

And — the imperial pleasure. Wherefore — not? 

"What matters — where we fall — to fill the maws 

Of worms, — on battle-pla'ms or listed spot ? 
Both — are but theaters — where the chief actors — rot! 

I sec — (before me) — the gladiator lie : 

He leans — upon his hand; his manly broio 

Consents — to death, — but — conquers — agony ! 

And his drooped head — sinks — (gradually) — lota! 

And through his side — the last drops, — (ebbing sloiv — 

From the red gash,) — fall heavy — one — by one, 

Like the first — of a thiinde r-shower ; and now 

The arena — swims around him! he is gone 
Ere ceased — the inhuman shout — which hailed the wretch — who won. 


He — heard it, but — he heeded not ; his eyes — 
Were with his heart, — and that — was far away : 
He recked not — of the life — he lost, — nor prize, 
But — where his rude hut — by the Danube lay! 
There — were his young barbarians — all at play! 
There was their Dacian mother, — he, — (their sire,) — 
Butchered — to make a Roman — holiday ! 
All this — rushed — with his blood. Shall he expire, — 
And — unavenged! — Arise! ye Goths! and glut — your ire I 


The sun-beams — streak the azure skies, 

And line — (with light) — the mountain's brow : 

"With hounds — and horns — the hunters rise, — 
And chase the roebuck — through the snow. 

From rock — to rock, — (with ^ia^-bound,) — 
High — on their iron poles — they pass; 

Mute, — lest the air, — (convulsed by sound,) — 
Kend — (from above) — a frozen mass. 

The goats — wind — slow — their wonted way, 
Up craggy steeps — and ridges rude, 

Marked — (by the wild wolf — for his prey,) — 
From desert cave — or hanging wood. 

And — (while the torrent — thunders loud, — 
And — as the echoing cliff's — reply,) 

The huts — peep o'er the morning cloud, 
Perched, — (like an eagle's nest), on high. 


Farewell ! farewell to thee, — Araby's daughter ! 

(Thus — warbled a Peri — beneath th' dark sea,) 
No pearl — ever lay — under Oman's green water 

More pure — in its shell — than thy spirit — in thee. 

Oh! fair— as th' sea-flower — close to thee growing, — 
How light— was thy heart— till Love's witchery came, 

Like th' wind — of the south— o'er a summer lute — blowing,- 
And husKd— all its music, — and withered— its frame! 

But long (upon Araby's — green — sunny highlands) 
Shall maids — and their lovers — remember th' doom 

Of her — who lies sleeping — among the Pearl Islands, 
With naught — but th' sea-star t' light up her tomb. 

And still — when th' merry date-season — is burning, 

And calls t' th' palm^groves — th' young — and th' old, — 

Th' happiest there, — from their pastime returning 
At sunset, — will weep — when thy story is told. 


The young village-maid, — when (with flowers) she dresses 

Her dark flowing hair for some festival-day, 
"Will think of thy fate — till, {neglecting her tresses,) 

She mournfully turns — from the mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, — (beloved of her hero,) forget thee; 

Tho' tyrants — watch over her tears — as they start, 
Close, — close — by th' side of that hero — she '11 set thee, — 

Embalmd — in the innermost shrine — of her heart. 

Farewell ! be it ours — to embellish thy pillow — 

"With every thing beauteous — that grows in th' deep ; 

Each flower of the rock — and each gem — of th' billow — 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine — thy sleep. 

Around thee — shall glisten — the loveliest amber — 

Th"t ever — th' sorrowing sea-bird — has wept; 
"With many a shell — in w T hose h ollow- wreath' d chamber 

"We, (Peris of ocean,) — by moonlight have slept. 

We '11 dive — where the gardens of coral lie darkling, — 

And plant — all the rosiest stems — at thy head; 
"We '11 seek — where the sands of the Caspian — are sparkling, — 

And gather — their gold — t' strew over thy bed. 

Farewell ! farewell ! until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost — in the hearts — of the fair — and th' brave, 

They '11 weep — for th' chieftain — who died — on the mountain ; 
They '11 weep — for th' maiden — who sleeps — in this wave. 


Dear — is my little native vale, — 

The ring-doxe — builds — and murmurs there; 

Close — by my cot — she tells her tale — 
To every passing villager. 

The squirrel — leaps — from tree — to tree, 

And shells his nuts — at liberty. 

In orarc^e-groves — and myrtle-bowers, 

(That breathe a gale — of fragrance round,) 

I charm — the fairy-footed hours 

"With my loved lute's — romantic sound, 

Or crowns — of living laurel weave 

For those — th't win the race — at eve. 

The shepherds horn — (at break of day,) 

The ballet danced (in twilight glade,) 
The canzonet — and roundelay — 

Sung — in the silent — green-wood shade; 
Those simple joys — (th't never fail) 
Shall bind me — to my native vale. 



'T was twilight, and the sunless day — went down — 

Over the waste of waters, like a veil, 
Which — (if withdraion) would but disclose the frown— 

Of one whose hate — is masked — but to assail. 
Thus — to their hopeless eyes — the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled — o'er the faces pale, 
And the dim — desolate deep ; twelve days — had Fear — 
"Been their familiar, — and now — Death — was here ! 

Then — rose — (from the sea) — the wild farewell, — 

Then — shrieked — the timid, — and stood still — the brave, — 

Then — some — leaped overboard — (with dreadful yell,) 
As eager — to anticipate — their grave ; 

And the sea — yawned around her — (like a hell,) 

And down — she sucked with her — the whirling wave t 

Like one — who grapples — with his enemy, — 

And strives to strangle him — before he die ! 

And first — one universal shriek — there rushed, — 
Louder — than the loud ocean, like a crash — 

Of echoing thunder; and then — all — was hushed, 
Save the wild wind — and the remorseless dash 

Of billows; but — (at intervals) there gushed, — 
(Accompanied — with a convulsive splash,) 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry — 

Of some strong swimmer — in his agony. 

There were two fathers — (in this ghastly crew,) — 
And with them — their two sons, — of whom the one — 

"Was more robust — and hardy — to the view ; 
But he — died — early ; and when he was gone 

His nearest mess-mate — told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, — and said, — "Heaven's will — be done I 

I — can do nothing ! " and he saiv him — thrown 

Into the deep, — without a tear — or groan I 

The other father — had a weaklier child, — 

Of a soft cheek — and aspect delicate; 
But — the boy — bore up — long, — and (with a mild — 

And patient spirit) — held aloof — his fate; 
Little — he said, — and now — and then — he smiled, — 

As if to win a part — from off the weight — 
He saw increasing — on his father's heart, 
With the deep — deadly thought — th't they must parti 

And o'er him — bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes — from ofi* his face, — but wiped the foam 

From his pule lips, — and ever — on him gazed! 

And when the wished-for shower — (at length) was come, 

And the boy's eyes, — (which the dull film — hntf-glazcd,) — 
Brightened, and — (for a moment) seemed to roam, 


He squeezed — (from out a rag) some drops of rain. — 
Into his dying child's mouth; but — in vain! 

The hoy expired; the father — held the clay, — 

And looked upon it long ; and when (at last) 
Death — left no doubt, — and the dead burden — lay 

Stiff — on his heart, — and pulse — and hope was past, 
He watched it — {wistfully,) — until away 

'T was borne — by the rude wave — wherein 'twas cast; 
Then— he — [himself) sunk down — all dumb — and shivering, 
And gave no sign — of life, — save his limbs — quivering. 


The origin of beauty, love, — and truth, — 
Of light, life, motion, and immortal youth, 
Of form, of music, sweetnsss, — and delight, 
Flashes — from God's own image — on my sight. 
I feel the pidses — of the Eternal Soul — 
In all my veins. My thoughts — within me — roll 
Like new-born planets, flushed with happy life; 
My nature — is at rest. There is no strife, 
No battle — of contending forms, — above 
Earth — and its spheres. 

Know ye the land of love ? 
Its ancient boundaries, the broad extent — 
Of its illimitable continent? 
"Where'er worlds bloom — and spirit skies unfold, 
Outflow its atmospheres — of living gold. 
The universe — is like a silver bell ; — 
The tongue of time — such harmony doth tell 
That worlds — are formed within the widening sea — 
Of our divine, — perpetual ecstasy. 


One passion — prominent appears : — the lust 
Of power, — which oft-times — took the fairer name — 
Of liberty, — and hung the popular flag — 
Of freedom out. Many, — indeed, its names. 
"When — on the throne it sat, — and round the neck 
Of millions — riveted — its iron chain, 
And on the shoulders of the people — laid 
Burdens — unmerciful, — it title took — 
Of tyranny, — oppression, — despotism ; 
And every tongue — was weary — cursing it. 
"When in the multitude — it gathered strength, — 
And, (like an ocean — bursting — from its bounds, — 
Long beat in vain,) went forth resistlessly, — 
It bore the stamp — and designation then 
Of popular fury, — anarchy, — rebellion; 



And honest men — bewailed, all order — void; 

All laws — annulled; all property — destroyed; 

The venerable — murdered — in the streets; 

The wise — despised; streams — red — with human blood; 

Harvests — beneath the frantic foot — trod down; 

Lands — desolate, and famine — at the door. 

These — are a part; but other names it had 

Jnnumerous — as the shapes — and robes — it wore. 

But — under every name, — in nature — still — 

Invariably — the same, — and always — bad, 

Conflicting cruelly — against itself, 

By its own hand — it fell; part — slaying part. 

And men — who noticed not the suicide 

Stood — wondering much — why earth, — from age — to age,- 

"Was still enslaved,— and erring causes — gave. 

This — was earth's liberty, — its nature — this, 
However named, in whomsoever found, — 
And found it was — in all — of woman born, — 
Each man — to make all — subject to his will; 
To make them do, — undo, — eat, — drink, — stand, — move, 
Talk, — think, — and feel — exactly — as he chose. 
Hence — the eternal strife — of brotherhoods, 
Of individuals, — families, — commonwealths. 
The root — (from which it grew) — was pride; bad root, — 
And bad — the fruit it bore. Then wonder not 
Th't long — the nations — from it — richly reaped 
Oppression, — slavery, — tyranny, — and war ; 
Confusion, — desolation, — trouble, — shame. 
And, marvelous — tho' it seems, — this monster, — (when 
It took the name — of slavery, — as oft 
It did,) — had advocates — to plead its cause; 
Beings th't walked erect, — and spoke — like men 
Of Christian parentage descended too, 
And dipped — in the baptismal font, — as sign 
Of dedication — to the Prince — who bowed — 
To death — to set the sm-bound prisoner — free. 

ZTircchristian thought! on what pretense — soever — 
Of right inherited, — or else — acquired; — 
Of loss, — or ]irofit, — or what plea — you name, — 
To buy — and sell, — to barter, — whip, — and hold — 
In chains — a being — of celestial make; 
Of kindred form, — of kindred faculties, — 
Of kindred feelings,— passions, — thoughts, — desires; 
Born—free — and heir — of an immortal hope; 
Thought — villainous, — absurd, — detestable ! 
Unworthy to be harbored — in & fiend I 
And only overreached — in wickedness — 
By that, birth — too of earthly liberty, 
"Which aimed — to make a reasonable man 
By legistation — think, — and by the sword — believe. 



"When my breast labors — with oppressive care, — 
And o'er my cheek — descends th* falling few, 
While all my warring passions — are at strife 
Oh! let me lisfn — t' th T words of life. 
Raptures — [deep-felt) — his doctrine did impart. — 
And thus — he rais'd from earth — th* drooping heart. 

' ; Think not — when all — your scanty stores afford 
Is spread — (at once) — upon th' sparing board; 
Think not — when worn — th' homely robe appears, — 
While on th' roof — th' howling tempest bears : — 
What— -farther — shall this feeble life sustain, — 
And what — shall clothe these shir' ring limbs again. 
Say, — does not life — its nourishment — exceed, 
And th' fair body — its investing weed? 
Behold! and look away — your low despair, — 
See th' bright teyiants of th" barren air : 
T' them — nor stores — nor granaries — belong ; 
Naught — but th' woodland — and th' pleasing song ; 
Yet — your kind — heavenly Father — bends his eye 
On th' least wing — th't flits along th' sky. 
T' him — they sing — when spring — renews th' plain; 
T' him — they cry — in winter's pinching reign; 
Nor is their music — nor their plaint — in vain; 
He hears th' gay — and th' distressful call, 
And — (with unsparing bounty) — fills them all.' } 

Observe — th' rising lily's snowy grace; 
Observe — th' various — vegetable race ; 
They — neither toil — nor spin, — but careless grow; 
Yet see — how warm — they blush, how bright — they glow! 
What regal vestments — can — with them compare ! 
What king — so shining, or what queen — so fair! 
If — ceaseless — (thus) — th' fowls of heav'n — he feeds, 
If — o'er th' fields — such lucid robes — he spreads, 
Will He not care for you. — (ye faithless,) — say? 
Is He — unwise, or — are ye — Uss — than they? 


I dream d — I saw — a little rosy child — 
(With flaxen ringlets) — in a garden playing; — 
Now — stopping here. — and then — afar off — straying, — 

As flowers — or butterfly — his feet beguiled. 

T was chang'd. One summer s day — I stepp'd aside — 
T' let him pass; his face — and manhood — seeming, 
And that full eye — of blue — was fondly beaming 

On a fair maiden — whom he called — "his bride V' 


Once — more : 't was autumn, — and — (th' cheerful fire) — 
I saw a group — of youthful forms — surrounding ; 
(Th' room — with harmless pleasantry — resounding,) — 

And — (in th' midst) — I mark'd — th' smiling sire. 
Th' heavens — were clouded, and I heard th' tone — 
Of a slow-moving bell; — th' white-hair 1 d man — was gone. 


Hail — t' th' gentle bride, th' dove— 

High nested — in th' column's crest! 
Oh, welcome — as th' bird of love, 

Who bore the olive-sign — of rest ! 
Hail t' th ; gentle bride ! th' flower — 

"Whose garlands — round th' column twine ! 
Oh, fairer — than th' citron bower, — 

More fragrant — than th' blossomed vine I 
Hail t' th' gentle bride ! th' star — 

"Whose radiance — o'er th' column beams j 
Oh, soft — as moonlight — seen afar — 

A silver shine — on trembling streams ! 

L.— THE LAST MINSTKEL. "Walter Scott. 

The way — was long, the wind — was cold, 
The Minstrel — was infirm — and old; 
His withered cheek — and tresses gray — 
Seemed to have known a better day. 
The harp, (his sole remaining joy,) 
"Was carried by an orphan boy. 
The last of all the bards — was he 
"Who sung — of Border chivalry. 
For, well-SL-d&y ! their date — was fled, 
His tuneful brethren — all were dead; 
And he, neglected — and oppressed, 
"Wished to be with them, — and at rest. 
No more, — on prancing palfrey borne, 
He caroled, — light as lark — at morn; 
No longer, courted — and caressed, 
High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
He poured — to lord — and lady gay — 
The unpremeditated lay. 
Old times — were changed, old manners — gone; 
A stranger — filled the Stuarts' 1 throne. 
A wandering harper, {scorned — and poor,) 
He begged his bread — from door — to door; 
And tuned, (to please a, peasant's ear,) 
The harp — a king — had loved to hear. 

He passed — where NeioarKs stately tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower; 


The Minstrel gazed — with wishful eye; 
No humbler resting-place — was nigh. 
"With hesitating step — at last 
Th' embattled portal-arch he Dassed, 
Whose ponderous gate — and massy bar 
Had oft — rolled back the tide of war, 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 
The Duchess — marked his weary pace, 
His timid mien, and reverend face, 
And bade her page — the menials tell 
That they should tend the old man — well; 
For she — had known adversity, 
Though born — in such a high degree ; 
In pride of power, in beauty 's bloom, 
Had wept — o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. 

When kindness — had his wants supplied, 
And the old man — was gratified, 
Began to rise — his minstrel pride : 
And he began to talk, anon, 
Of good Earl Francis, (dead — and gone;) 
And how full many a tale he knew — 
Of the old warriors — of Buccleugh ; 
And would the noble Duchess — deign 
To listen to an old man's strain, 
Though stiff — his hand, his voice — though weak, 
He thought even yet, — the sooth to speak, — 
That if she loved the harp to hear, 
He could make music — to her ear. 

The humble boon — was soon obtained ; 
The aged Minstrel — audience gained. 
But when he reached the room of state, 
Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
Perchance — he wished his boon denied: 
For when to tune his harp he tried 
His trembling hand had lost the ease — 
Which marks security — to please; 
And scenes, (long past,) of joy and pain, 
Came wildering — o'er his aged brain; 
He tried to tune his harp — in vain. 
The pitying Duchess — praised its chime, 
And gave him heart, and gave him time, 
Till every string's according glee — 
Was blended — into harmony. 
And then, (he said,) he would full fain 
He could recall an ancient strain 
He never thought to sing again. 


And much he wished, yet feared, to try 
The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings — his fingers strayed, 
And an uncertain warbling made; 
And oft — he shook his hoary head : 
But when he caught the measure wild, 
The old man raised his face, and smiled; 
And lightened up his faded eye 
"With all a poefs ecstasy! 
In varying cadence, soft — or strong, 
He swept the sounding chords along; 
The present scene, the future lot, 
His toil, his wants, were all forgot : 
Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 
In the full tide of song were lost ; 
Each blank — in faithless memory void 
The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 
And while his harp — responsive rang, 
'T was thus — the latest Minstrel sang : 

11 Breathes there the man, with soul — so dead, 
"Who never — to himself — hath said, 

1 This — is my own, — my native land ! ' 
"Whose heart — hath ne'er within him burned 
As home — his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering — on a foreign strand ! 
If such — there breathe, go, mark him well; 
Por him — no minstrel raptures swell : 
High — though his titles, proud — his name, 
Boundless — his wealth — as ivish can claim, — 
Despite those titles,— power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concenter'd all in self, 
Living — shall forfeit — fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down — 
To the vile dust — from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, — unhonored, — and unsung I 

u O Caledonia ! stern — and wild, 

Meet nurse — for a poetic child! 

Land — of brown heath and shaggy wood, — 

Land of the mountain and the flood, — 

Land of my sires! — vmat mortal hand — 

Can e'er untie — the filial band 

That knits me — to thy rugged strand? 

Still, — as I view each well-known scene, 

Think what is now, and what hath been, 

Seems — as, to me, of all bereft, 

Sole friends thy woods and streams — were left; 

And thus — I love them better — still, 

Even in extremity — of ill. 


By Yarrow's stream — still let me stray, 
Though none — should guide my feeble way; 
Still — feel the breeze — down Ettrick break, 
Although it chill — my withered cheek; 
Still lay my head — on Teviot stone, 
Though there,— forgotten — and alone, 
The bard — may draw his parting groan, 

" Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide 

The glaring bale-fires — blaze no more; 
No longer — steel-clad warriors ride — 

Along thy wild — and willoioed shore ; 
"Where'er thou windst by dale — or hill, 
All, all — is peaceful, all — is still, 

As if thy waves, — since Time was born, 
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherds reed, 

Nor started — at the bugle-horn ; 
Unlike the tide — of human time, 

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, 
Ketains each grief, — retains each crime, 

Its earliest course — was doomed to know ; 
And, darker — as it downward bears, 
Is stained — with past — and present tears." 

LI.— THE EOMAN SOLDIEE. Atherstone. 

There was a man, 
(A Koman soldier, for some daring deed 
That trespassed on the laws,) in dungeon low 
Chained down. His — was a noble spirit, — rough,— 
But generous, — and brave, — and kind. 
He had a son : it was a rosy boy, — 
A little faithful copy — of his sire — 
In face — and gesture. From infancy — the child 
Had been his father's solace — and his care. 

"With earliest morn 
Of that first day — of darkness — and amaze — 
He came. The iron door — was closed — for them, — 
Never — to open more! The day, — the night, — 
Dragged slowly by ; nor did they know the fate — 
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard 
The pent-up thunders — in the earth beneath, — 
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air 
Grew hot (at length,) and thick. But in his straw 
The boy — was sleeping : and the father hoped 
The earthquake — might pass by; nor would he wake— 
(From his sound rest) the unfearing child, — nor tell 
The dangers — of their state. On his low couch 


The fettered soldier sunk, — and — (with deep aioe) — 

Listened — 'the fearful sounds : — with upturned eye — 

To the great gods — he breathed a prayer ; — then — strove 

To calm himself, and lose — (in sleep) — awhile 

His useless terrors. But he could not sleep: 

His body — burned with feverish heat; — his chains — 

Clanked loud, — although he moved not ; deep — in earth — 

Groaned unimaginable thunders : — sounds, — 

(Fearfid — and ominous,) arose — and died, 

(Like the sad moanings — of November's wind,) 

In the blank midnight. Deepest horror — chilled 

His blood — that burned — before ; cold, clammy sweats — 

Came o'er him: then, — [anon,) — a fiery thrill 

Shot through his veins. Now — on his couch— he shrunk, 

And shivered — as in fear: — now — (upright) — leaped, — 

As though he heard the battle-trumpet sound, 

And longed — to cope with death. 

He slept — at last, 
A troubled, — dreamy sleep. Well — had he slept, 
Never— to waken more! His hours — are few, — 
But terrible — his agony. 

Loudly — the father — called upon his child: 
No voice — replied. Trembling — and anxiously — 
He searched their couch of straw : — with headlong haste- 
Trod round his stinted limits, — and, — low bent, — 
Groped darkling — on the earth: no child — was there. 
Again he called : again at farthest stretch — 
Of his accursed fetters, — till the blood — 
Seemed bursting — from his ears, — and from his eyes 
Fire flashed : he strained, with arm — extended far. 
And fingers — widely spread, — greedy — to touch — 
Though but his idoVs garment. Useless toil! 
Yet still — renewed: still round — and round he goes, — 
And strains, — and snatches, — and — (with dreadful cries) — 
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy — fires him now : 
He plants against the wall — his feet; his chain — 
Grasps; tugs — (with gia,nt strength) to force away — 
The deep-driven staple : yells — and shrieks — with rage, 
And, — (like a desert lion — in the snare — 
Eaging — to break his toils,) — to and fro — bounds. 
But see ! the ground is opening : a blue light 
Mounts, — gently waving, — noiseless : thin — and cold — 
It seems, — and — like a rainbow tint, not flame; 
But — by its luster, — (on the earth outstretched,) — 
Behold the lifeless child! His dress is singed, — 
And o'er his face serene — a darkened line 
Points out the lightning's track. 

Silent — and pale — 
The father stands : no tear — is in his eye : 


The thunders — bellow, — but he hears them not. 

The ground lifts — like a sea, — he knotos it not: 

The strong walls — grind — and gape: the vaulted roof — 

Takes shapes — like bubble — tossing in the xcind : 

See ! he looks up — and smiles ; for death — to him 

Is happiness. Yet — could one — last embrace — 

Be given, 't were still — a sweeter thing — to die. 

It will be given. Look ! how the rolling ground, 

(At every swell,) nearer — and still more near — 

Moves (toward the father's outstretched arm) — his boy I 

Once — he has touched his garment : how his eye — 

Lightens with love, — and hope, — and anxious fears! 

Ha ! see, he has him now ! — he clasps him round, — 

Kisses his face, puts back the curling locks — 

That shaded his fine brow, looks in his eyes, 

Grasps — in his own — those little dimpled hands, 

Then folds him — to his breast, — as he was wont — 

To lie — when sleeping, — and — [resigned) — awaits 

Undreaded death. And death came — soon, — and sioift, — 

And pangless. The huge pile — sunk down — (at once) — 

Into the opening earth. Walls, — arches, — roof, 

And deep foundation-stones, — all — mingling — fell ! 


Th' blessed morn — has come again ; the early gray — 
Taps at th' slumberer's icindow-vsmes, — and seems t' say, — 
Break, — break — from the enchanter's chain; — away, — away! 

'Tis winter, — yet — there is no sound — along the air 

Of winds — upon their battle-ground] — but gently there — 

Th' snow is falling : — all around — how fair, — how fair! 

Th' jocund fields — would masquerade, — (fantastic scene!) 

Tree, — shrub, — and lawn, — and lonely glade — have cast their green, — 

And joined th r revel, — all — arrayed — so white — and clean. 

Even the old posts — (th't hold th' bars) — and the old gate, — 

(Forgetful — of their wintry icars — and age sedate,) — 

~EL\gh-cappcd — and plumed, — (like white hussars,) stand there in state. 

Th' drifts — are hanging by th' sill, — the eaves. — th' dooi*; 
Th' haystack — has become a hill; all covered o'er 
Th' wagons — (loaded for th' mill — the eve before.) 

Maria — brings th' water-pail, — but tvhere 's — th' well ? 
Like magic — of a fairy tale, — (most strange — t' tell) — 
All vanished, — curb, — and crank, — and rail. How deep it fell! 

Th' wood-pile — too — is playing hide : the axe, — th' log, — 

Th' kennel — of that friend — so tried, — (the old icatch-dog,) — 

Th' grindstone — standing by its side, — all — (now)— incog. 


Th' bustling cock — looks out — (aghast) — from his high shed; 
No spot — t' scratch him a repast: — up comes his head, — 
Starts — th' dull hamlet — with a blast, — and back — t' bed. 

Old drowsy dobbin, — (at th' call,) — amazed — aioakes, 
And — (from th' window of his stall) — a view he takes; 
While thick— and faster — seem t' fall — th' silent flakes. 

Th' barnyard gentry — (musing,) — chime their morning moan; 
Like Mcmnon's music — of old time — (that voice of stone!) 
So — warbled they, — and so sublime — their solemn tone. 

Good Ruth — has called th' younger folk — t' drop — below; 

Full welcome — was th' word she spoke, — down — down they go,— 

Th' cottage quietude — is broke: — th' snow! th' snow! 

Now — rises — (from around th' fire) — a pleasant strain; 
Ye giddy sons — of mirth, — retire ! and ye profane t 
A hymn — t' the Eternal Sire — goes up again. 

Th' patriarchal Book— divine — (upon th' knee,) — 

Open — where th' gems of Judah shine, — (sweet minstrelsie !) 

How soars each heart — with each fair line, — God, — t' thee! 

Around the altar — low they bend, — (devout — in prayer;) — 
As snows — upon th' roof descend, — so — angels — there 
Come down, — that household — t' defend — with gentle care. 

Now — sings th' kettle — o'er th' blaze, — th' buckwheat — heaps; 
Bare Mocha, — (worth an Arab's praise,) — sweet Susan steeps; 
The old round stand — her nod obeys, — and out — it leaps. 

Unerring presages — declare — th' banquet near; 
Soon — busy appetites — are there, — and disappear — 
The glories — of the ample fare, — (with thanks — sincere.) 

Now — tiny snow-hir&s — venture nigh — from copse — and spray, — 
(Sweet strangers ! with th' winter's sky — t' pass away,) 
And gather crumbs — in full supply — for all th' day. 

Let now th' busy hours — begin : — out rolls th' churn ; 

Forth hastes th' farm-boy, — and brings in brush — t' burn; — 

Sweep, — shovel, — scour, — sew, — knit, — and spin, — 'till night's return. 

T' delve his thrashing — John must hie; his sturdy shoe — 
Can all th' subtle damps — defy ; how wades he — through ! 
While dainty milkmaids, — (slow and shy,) his track pursue. 

Each — t' the hour's — allotted care, — t' shell th' corn, — 
Th' broken harness — t' repair, — th' sleigh — t' adorn, — 
As cheerful, — tranquil,— frosty,— fair — speeds on th' morn. 

While mounts — the eddying smoke amain — (from many a hearth)— 
And all th' landscape — rings again — with rustic mirth, 
So gladsome seems — (to every swain) th' snowy earth. 



Of all — th' myriad moods — of mind — 

Th't thro' the soul — come thronging, — 
Which one — was e'er so dear, — so kind, — 

So beautiful — as— Longing ? 
Th' thing — we long for, — that — we are — 

For one — transcendent moment, — 
Before — the present — (poor — and bare)— 

Can make — its sneering — comment. 

Still, — (thro' our paltry stir — and strifes- 
Glows down — th' wish'd Ideal, — 

And Longing — molds — in clay — what Life— 
Carves — in th' marble — real; 

To let th' new life in, — we know, — < 
Desire — must ope the portal; 

Perhaps — th' longing — to be so — 
Helps — make th' soul — immortal. 

Longing — is God's fresh — heavenward will, — 

With our poor earthward — striving ; 
"We quench it — th't we may he still 

Content — with merely — living; 
But, — would we learn — that heart's— full scope— 

Which we are hourly — wronging, — 
Our lives — must climb — from hope — to hope — 

And realize — our longing. 

Ah ! let us hope — th't to our praise — 

Good God — not only reckons 
The moments — when we tread his ways, — 

But — when the spirit beckons, — 
Th't some — slight good — is also wrought — 

Beyond — seZ/-satisfaction, — 
When we are simply good — in thought, 

Howe'er — we fail— in action. 


Forevei — the sun — is pouring his gold — ' 

On hundreds of worlds — that beg — and borrow: 

His warmth — he pours forth — on summits cold, 
His wealth — on the homes — of want — and sorrow: 

To withhold his largess — of precious light — 

Is — to bury himself — in eternal night! 
To give — is — to live ! 

The flower — blossoms not — for itself — at all; 

Its joy — is the joy — it freely diffuses ; 
Of beauty — and balm — it is prodigal, 

And it lives — in the life — it sweetly loses : 


No choice — for the 7*ose-bud but glory — or doom; 

To exhale — or to smother, — to wither — or bloom. 

To deny — is — to die ! 

The seas — lend silvery rain — to the land; 

The land — its sapphire — streams — to the ocean ; 
The heart — sends blood — to the brain — of command; 

The brain — to the heart — its lightning motion; 
And ever — and ever — we yield our breath 
Till the mirror — is dry — and images death. 
To give — is to live ! 

He — is dead whose hand — is not open wide — 
To help the need — of a human brother ; 

He — doubles the length — of his life-long ride 
"Who gives his fortunate plaee — to another ; 

And a thousand million lives — are his 

Who carries the world — in his sympathies. 
To give — is to live. 

Throw gold — to the far-dispersing waves, 

And your ships — sail home — with tons of treasure ; 

Care not — for comfort, all danger brave, 

And evening — and age — shall sup — with pleasure; 

Fling health — to the sunshine, wind, — and rain, 

And roses — shall come to the cheek again. 
To deny — is — to die ! 

What is wealth ? Is it health — or strength ? 

If we — (for humanity s sake) — will lose it, 
We shall find it — a hundred-/o£rf — at length; 

While they shall forever lose who refuse it: 

And nations — that save their union — and peace 

At the cost of right — their woes — shall increase. 

They — save — a grave I 


All in our marriage garden 

Grew, — (smiling up — to God,) 
A bonnier flower — than ever 

Suck'd the green warmth — of the sod; 
Oh, beautiful, — (unfathomably,) 

Its little lips — unfurled ; 
And — crown of all things — was our wee 

White Rose — of all the world. 

From out a balmy bosom — 

Our bud — of beauty — grew; 
It fed on smiles — for sunshine. 

On tears — for daintier dew. 


Ave, — nestling viarm — and tenderly, — 

Our leaves of love — were curled — 
So close — and close — about our wee 

White Rose — of all the world. 
With mystical — faint fragrance — 

Our house of life — she filled; — 
Eevealed — (each hour) — some fairy tower — 

Where winged hopes — might build! 
We saw, — (tho' none — like us — might see,)— 

Such precious 'promise pearled 
Upon the petals — of our wee 

White Rose — of all the world. 
But — evermore — the halo — 

Of a?igel-\ight — increased, — 
Like the mystery — of moonlight — 

Th : t folds — some fairy feast. 
S?iow — white, — snow — soft, — snow — silently, 

Our darling bud — xxp-curled, 
And dropped — i' th' grave, — (God's lap,) — our wee 

White Rose — of all the world. 
Our Rose — was but in blossom. 

Our life — was but in spring, 
When — (down the solemn midnight) — 

We heard the spirit sing, — 
(" Another bud — of infancy — 

With holy deics impearled ! ; ') 
And (in their hands) — they bore — our wee 

White Rose — of all th' world. 
You scarce could think — so small a thing — 

Could leave a loss — so large; 
Her little light — such shadow fling — 

From dawn — to sunset's marge. 
In other springs — our life — rnay be — 

In bannered bloom — unfurled, 
But never, — xevek. — match our wee 

White Rose — of all the world. 


Blessings — on the blessed children, — sweetest gifts — of heaven — to earth, — 
Filling all the heart — with gladness, — all the house — with mirth; 
Bringing with them — native sweetness, — pictures — of the primal bloom, — 
(Which th' bliss — -forever gladdens) — of the region — whence they come; 

BHnging with them — joyous impulse — of a state without a care, — 

And buoyant faith — in being — which makes all in nature fair ; 

Not a doubt — to dim the distance, — not a grief — to vex thee nigh, — 

And a hope — th't — in (existence) — finds each hour — a luxury; 

Going — singing, — bounding, — brightening, — never fearing, — (as they go,) 

Th't the innocent — shall tremble, — and the loving — find a foe; 

In the daylight, — in the starlight. — still with thought — th't freely flies, — 

Prompt — and joyous, — with no question — of the beauty — in the skies; 


Genial fancies — winning raptures — as the bee — still sucks her store, — 

All th' present — still a garden — gleaned a thousand times — before; 

All th' future — but a region — where th' happy serving thought — 

Still depicts a thousand blessings — by the winged hunter caught; 

Life — a chase where blushing pleasures — only seem to strive — in flight, — 

Lingering — to be caught, — and yielding gladly — to the proved delight ; 

As the maiden — (thro' the allies, — looking backtoard — as she flies,) 

"Woes th' fond pursuer — onward — with the love-light — in the eyes. 

Oh ! th' happy life — in children, — still restoring joy — to ours, — 

Making — (for the forest) — music, — planting — for the wayside flowers; 

Back recalling — all the sweetness, — in a pleasure — pure — as rare, 

Back — the past — of hope — and rapture bringing — to the heart of care. 

How, — (as swell the happy voices, — bursting — thro' th' shady grove,) — 

Memories — take th' place of sorrows, — time — restores th' sway to love ! 

We — are in the shouting comrades, — shaking off — th' load of years, 

Thought — forgetting, — strifes — and trials, — doubts — and agonies — and tears. 

We — are in the bounding urchin, — as — o'er hill — and plain — he darts, — 

Share the struggle — and the triumph, — gladdening — in his heart of hearts ; 

"What an image — of the vigor — and th' glorious grace — we knew, — 

"When — (to eager youth) — from boyhood — at a single bound — we grew ! 

Even such — our slender beauty, — such — upon our cheeks — th' glow; 

In our eyes — the life — and gladness, — of our blood — the overflow. 

Bless — the mother of the urchin ! — in his form — we see her truth; 

He — is now — the very picture — of th' memories — in our youth ; 

Never — can we doubt the forehead, — nor — th' sunny, flowing hair, — 

Nor th' smiling — in the dimple-speaking chin — and cheek — so fair; 

Bless — the mother— of the young one! He hath blended — in his grace — 

All the hope — and joy — and beauty — kindling — once — in either face! 

Oh, the happy faith of children, that — is glad — in all it sees, 

And — with never need — of thinking, — pierces still — its mysteries t 

In simplicity profoundest, — in their soul — abundance blest, 

Wise — in value of the sportive, — and — (in restlessness) — at rest; 

Lacking every creed, — yet — having faith — so large — in all they see 

Th't to know — is still to gladden, — and 't is rapture — but to be. 

"What trim fancies — bring them — -flowers! what rare spirits — walk their wood! 

"What a wondrous world — th' moonlight harbors — of th' gay — and good! 

Unto them — th' very tempest — walks in glories — grateful — still, — 

And th' lightning gleams, — (a seraph) to persuade them — to th' hill: 

'Tis a sweet — and soothing spirit — th't throughout th' midnight reigns, — 

Broods — beside the shuttered windows, — and (with gentle love) — complains; 

And how wooing, — how exalting, — (with th' richness — of her dyes,) 

Spans the painter — of the rainbow — her bright arch — along th' skies, — 

With a dream — (like Jacob's ladder) — showing — (to th' fancy's sight) 

How 'twere easy — for the sad one — to escape — to worlds of light! 

Ah ! the wisdom — of such fancies, — and th' truth — in every dream, 

Th't — (to faith confiding) — offers, — (cheering every gloom,) & gleam! 

Happy hearts — still cherish — [fondly) each delusion of your youth; 

Joy — is born of well believing, — and the fiction — wraps th' truth. 



True love's — th' gift — th't God — hath given — 

T' man — alone — beneath th' heavens. 

It is th' secret sympathy, — 

Th' silver chord, — the silken tie — 

"Which — [heart — t' heart — and mind — t' mind) — 

In body — and in soul — can bind. 


No ; let the eagle— change his plume, 

Th' leaf — its hue, — th' flower — its bloom; 

But ties — around th' heart — were spun 

That could not, — would not — he undone. 

W» ?F yfr 7& 7& 7& ♦ 

"What I am without thee ! 
A bark — (at midnight) — sent — alone — 

T' drift — upon a moonless sea, — 
A lute — whose leading chord — is gone, — 
A wounded bird — th't has but one — 
Imperfect wing — t' soar upon, — 

Is like — what / am — without thee. 
Th' mind — th't would be happy — must be great ; 
Great — in its wishes, — great — in its surveys / 
Extended views — a narrow mind — extend. 


Many — the roads — men took, the plans — they tried. 

The man of science — to the shade retired, 

And laid his head — upon his hand, — in mood — 

Of awful thoughifulness, — and dived — and dived 

Again, — deeper — and deeper still, — to sound 

The cause remote ; resolved — (before he died) 

To make — some grand discovery by which — 

He should be known — to all posterity. 

And (in the silent vigils — of the night, 

"When ww-inspired men — reposed,) — the bard, 

(Ghastly of countenance, — and from his eye — 

Oft streaming wild, — unearthly fire,) — sat up 

And sent his imagination forth, — and searched 

The far — and near, — heaven, — earth, — and gloomy hell, 

For fiction new, — for thought — ww-thought — before ; 

And when some curious, — rare idea — peered 

Upon his mind — he dipped his hasty pen, — 

And (by the glimmering lamp — or moonlight beam 

Th't through his lattice peeped) — wrote fondly down 

"What seemed — in truth — imperishable song. 

And sometimes too — the reverend divine, 


(In meditation deep — of holy things 

And canities — of time,) — heard Fame's sweet voice — 

Approach his car, — and hung another flower — 

(Of earthly sort) about the sacred truth, 

And ventured — (whiles) to mix — the bitter text 

With relish — suited to the sinner's taste. 

And ofttimes — too — the simple hind, — (who seemed 

Ambitionless, — arrayed in humble garb, 

"While round him — spreading — fed his harmless flock,) 

Sitting — was seen — by some wild — warbling brook, 

Carving his name — upon his favorite staff, 

Or in ill-favored letters — tracing it — ■ 

Upon the aged thorn, — or on the face — 

Of some conspicuous — oft-frequented stone, 

With persevering, — wondrous industry ; 

And hoping — as he toiled amain, and saw 

The characters — taking form — some other wight, — 

Long after he was dead — and in his grave, 

Should loiter there — at noon and read his name. 


In purple — some, — and some — in rags, — stood forth 

For reputation. Some — displayed a limb — 

"Well-fashioned ; some, — (of lowlier mind,) — a cane — 

Of curious workmanship — and marvelous twist. 

In strength — some — sought it, and in beauty — more. 

Long, — long, — the fair one — labored at the glass, 

And (being tired,) called in auxiliar skill, 

To have her sails (before she went abroad) 

Pull spread, — and nicely set — to catch the gale 

Of praise ; and much — she caught, — and much — deserved, 

When outward loveliness — was index fair 

Of purity — within. But oft, — alas ! 

The bloom — was on the skin — alone ; and when 

She saw, — (sad sight!) the roses — on her cheek — 

Wither, — and heard the voice of Fame retire — 

And die away, — she heaved most piteous sighs, 

And wept — most lamentable tears; and while 

In wild delirium made rash attempt, 

(Unholy mimicry — of nature's work!) 

To re-create — (with frail — and mortal things) 

Her withered face. Attempt — how fond — and vain! 

Her frame — itself soon mouldered — down to dust; 

And in the land — of deep forgetfulness — 

Her beauty — and her name — were laid — beside 

Eternal silence — and the loathsome worm, 

Into whose darkness — flattery — ventured not, 

Where none — had ears — to hear the voice — of Fame. 



Somewhat back — from the village street 
Stands the oZeZ-fashioned country-se&t] 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees — their shadows throw; 
And (from its station — in the hall) 
An ancient time-piece — says — to all, — 
"Forever — never I Never — -forever ! " 

Half-way — upstairs — it stan ds, 

And points and beckons — with its hands 

From its case — of massive oak, 

Like a monk who, (under his cloak.) 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 

"With sorrowful voice — to all who pass, — 

Forever — never ! Never — forever ! 

By day — its voice — is loio and light; 

But — in the silent dead — of night, 

Distinct — as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes — along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, — along the floor, 

And seems to say — (at each chamber door,) — 

"Forever — never ! Never — forever ! ' ' 

Through days of sorrow — and of mirth, 
Through days of death — and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged — it has stood; 
And as if, (like God,) — it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats — those words of awe, — 
Fore ver — never ! Ne ver — forever ! 

In that mansion — used to be 
.Free-hearted — Hospitality : 
His great fires — up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger — feasted at his board; 
But, (like the skeleton — at the feast,) 
That warning time-piece — never ceased, — 
"Forever — never ! Never — forever I ' ' 

There — groups — of merry children played, — 

There — youths — and maidens — dreaming — strayed; 

O precious hours ! O golden prime ! 

And affluence — of love — and time 

Even as a miser — counts his gold 

Those hours — the ancient time-piece told, — 

"Forever — never ! Never — forever ! ' ' 

From that chamber, — (clothed in white,) 
The bride — came forth — on her w edding-night ; 

3l>2 manual of elocution. 

There, — (in that silent room — below,) 
The dead lay — in his shroud of snow, 
And (in the hush — th't followed the prayer) 
"Was heard — the old clock — on the stair, — 
"Forever — never ! Never— forever ! " 

All — are scattered — now and fled; 
Some — are married, — some — are dead! 
And when I ask, (with throbs of pain,) 
"Ah ! when — shall they all meet again ? " 
As in the days — long since gone by, 
The ancient ti?ne-})iece — makes reply, — 
"Forever — never ! Never — -forever ! " 

Never — here, — forever — there ! 

Where all jjarting, pain, and care, 

And death — and time — shall disappear; — 

Forever — there, — but never — here ! 

The horologue — of eternity — 

Sayeth this — incessantly, — 

"Forever — never ! Never — -forever ! " 


Many — the roads — men took, — the plans — they tried, 

And awful — oft the wickedness — they wrought. 

To be observed, — some — scrambled up to thrones, 

And sat in vestures — dripping wet — with gore. 

The warrior — dipped his words — in blood,— and wrote 

His name — on lands — and cities — desolate. 

The rich — bought fields, — and houses built, — and raised 

The monumental piles — up to the clouds, 

And called them — by their names; and, — [strange — to tell,) 

Rather than be unknown, — and pass away — 

Obscurely — to the grave, — some — (small of sold, 

That else — had perished — unobserved,) acquired 

Considerable renown — by oaths profane; 

By jesting boldly — with sacred tilings, 

And uttering — -fearlessly, whate'er occurred, 

Wild, — -blasphemous, — perditionable thoughts 

Th't Satan — in them moved; by wiser men — 

Suppressed — and quickly banished — from the mind. 

Many — the roads they took, — the plans they tried; 

But all — in vain. Who grasped — at earthly fame — 

Grasped wind ; nay worse, — a serpent grasped, th't through 

His hand — slid smoothly, — and was gone ; but left 

A sting behind, — which wrought him — endless pain. 

For oft — her voice — was old Abaddon's lure, 

By which — he charmed the foolish soul — to death 7 



"Get thee back, — Sorrow, get thee back! 

My brow — is smooth, — mine eyes — are bright, 
My limbs — are full of health and strength, — 

My cheeks — are fresh, — my heart — is light; — 
So get thee back 1 Oh I get thee back ! 

Consort with age, — but not with me; 
Why — should'st thou follow on my track? 

I am too young — t' live with thee." 

"O foolish youth! — t' scorn thy friend! 

T : harm thee — wherefore — should I seek ? 
I would not dim — thy sparkling eyes, — 

Nor blight — th' roses — on thy cheek : 
I would but teach thee — to be true; 

And — should I press thee — overmuch,— 
Ever — th' flowers — that I bedew — 

Yield sweetest fragrance — t' th' touch?' 

" Get thee back, — Sorrow, — get thee back ! 

I like thee not; thy looks — are chill; 
Th' sunshine — lies upon my heart, — 

Thou — showest me th' shadoiv — still. 
So get thee back ! Oh, get thee back ! 

Nor touch my golden locks — with gray. 
Why — should'st thou follow — on my track ? 

Let me be happy — while I way." 

" Good friend, — thou needest — sage advice ; 

I'll keep thy heart — from growing proud; — 
I'll fill thy mind — with kindly thoughts, — 

And link thy pity — t' the crowd. 
Would'st have a heart — of pulseless stone ? 

Would'st be too happy — to be good? 
Nor make a human woe — thine own, — 

For sake — of human brotherhood?" 

" Get thee back, — Sorrow, — get thee back! 

Why — should I weep — while I am young ? 
I have not piped, — I have not danced, — 

My morning songs — I have not sung : 
Th' toorld — is beautiful t' me, — 

Why tarnish it — to soul — and sense ? 
Prithee — begone ! I '11 think of thee — 

Some half a hundred winters — hence." 

"O — foolish youth! — thou knov)'st me not; 

I — am th' mistress — of the earth ; — 
'Tis / — give tenderness — t' love; 

Enhance — th' privilege — of mirth, — 


Refine the human gold — from dross, 
And teach thee, — (wormling — of th' sod,) — 

T' look beyond — thy present loss — 
T thy eternal gain — with God." 

"Get thee back, — Sorrorv, — get thee back! 

I '11 learn thy lessons — soon enough; 
If virtue's pleasure— smooth my way, — 

Why — shouldst thou seek — to make it rough? 
No fruit — can ripen — in th' dark, — 

No bud — can bloom — in constant cold ; 
So — prithee, — Sorrow, — miss thy mark, — 

Or strike me not — till I am old." 

11 1 — am thy friend, — thy host of friends; 

No bud — in constant heat — can blow ; — 
Th' green fruit — withers — in th' drought, — 

But ripens — where th' waters flow. 
Th' sorrows — of thy youthful day — 

Shall make thee wise — in coming years; 
Th' brightest rainbows — ever play — 

Above th' fountains — of our tears. 11 

Youth— frowned, — but Sorrow— gently smiled ; 

Upon his heart — her hand she laid, — 
And all its hidden sympathies — 

Throbbed — t' th' fingers —of th' maid. 
And when his head — grew gray — with time 

He owned — th't Sorrow — spoke th' truth, — 
And th't th' harvest — of his prime — 

Was ripened — by th' rains — of youth. 


"When streams — of unkindness as bitter — as gall 

Bubble up — from the heart — to the tongue, 
And Meekness — is writhing — in torment — and thrall, 

By the hands — of Ingratitude — wrung, — 
In the heat — of injustice, unwept — and unfair, 

"While the anguish — is festering — yet, 
None, none — but an angel of God — can declare, — 

" I now — can forgive — and — forget." 

But if the bad spirit — is chased from the heart, 

And the lips — are in penitence — steeped, 
"With the wrong so repented — the wrath — will depart, 

Though scorn or injustice — were heaped; 
For the best compensation — is paid for all ill 

When tin; cheek — with contrition — is wet, 
And every one — feels it is possible — still 

At once — to forgive — and forget. 


To forget ? It is hard — for a man — with a mind, 

However his heart may forgive, 
To blot out — all insults — and evils — behind, 

And but for the future — to live. 
Then how — shall it be? for at every turn 

Recollection — the spirit — will fret, 
And the ashes — of injury — smolder — and burn, 

Though we strive — to forgive — and forget. 

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle — unseal, 

And mind — shall be partner — with heart, 
While thee to thyself — I bid conscience reveal, 

And show thee — how evil — thou art : 
Eemember — thy follies, thy sins, and — thy crimes; 

How vast — is that infinite debt ! 
Yet Mercy — -hath seven — by seventy times 

Been swift — to forgive — and forget! 

Brood not on insults — or injuries old, 

For thou — art injurious — too; — 
Count not their sum — till the total — is told, 

For thou — art unkind — and untrue; 
And if all thy harms — are forgotten,— forgiven, 

Now Mercy — with Justice — is met; 
Oh, who would not gladly — take lessons — of heaven. 

Nor learn to forgive — and forget ? 

Yes, yes ; let a man when his enemy — weeps 

Be quick — to receive him — a friend; 
For thus — on his head — in kindness he heaps 

Hot coals — to refine — and amend; 
And hearts — th't are Christian more eagerly yearn, 

(As a nurse — on her innocent pet,) 
Over lips th't once — bitter — to penitence turn, 

And whisper — [forgive — and forget.) 


No chisel'd urn — is rear'd t' thee; 

No sculptured scroll — enrolls its page — 
T' tell — th' children — of th' free — 

Where — rests th' patriot — and th' sage. 

Far — in th' city — of th' dead — 

A corner — holds thy sacred clay ; 
And pilgrim feet, — (by reverence — led,) — 

Have worn a path — th't marks th' way. 

There — round thy lone — and simple grave, — 

(Encroaching — on its marble gray,) — . . 

Wild plantain weeds — and tall grass wave, — 
And sunbeams — pour their shadeless ray. 


Level — with earth — thy letter'd stone, — 
(And hidden — oft — by winter's snow,) — 

Its modest record — tells — alone — 

Whose dust — it is — th't sleeps — beloiv* 

That name 's — enough, — that honored name — 

No aid — from eulogy — requires : 
'T is blended — with thy country's fame, — 

And flashes round — her lightning spires! 


High hopes — th't burn'd — like stars sublime 

Go down — in the heavens — of freedom, 
And true hearts — perish — in the time 

We bitterliest — need 'em ! 
But never — sit we down — and say, 

There 's nothing left — but sorrow: 
We walk the wilderness — To-day ; 

The promised land — To-morrow. 

Our birds of song — are silent — now ; — 

There are no flowers — blooming; 
Yet life — beats in the frozen bough, 

And freedom's spring — is coming! 
And freedom's tide — comes up alway, 

Though we — may stand in sorrow, 
And our good bark, — aground — To-day, 

Shall float — again — To-morrow. 

Through all the long, — dark night — of years — 

The people s cry — ascendeth, 
And earth — is wet — with blood — and tears; 

But our meek sufferance — endeth. 
The few — shall not — forever sway — 

The many — moil — in sorrow : 
The powers — of hell — are strong — To-day, 

But — Christ — shall rise — To-morrow. 

Though hearts — brood o'er the past, — our eyes — 

With smiling futures — glisten, 
For lo! our day — bursts up the skies; 

Lean out your soids, — and listen! 
The world — rolls freedoms radiant way, 

And ripens — with her sorrow: 
Keep heart! who bear — the cross — To-day 

Shall wear — the crown — To-morrow. 

"Franklin's body lies in Christ Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth 
Streets, Philadelphia, Pa. The flat worn stone is inscribed thus: 



DEBORAH J 1770. 


O youth! flame-earnest — still aspire, 

With energies immortal ! 
To many a heaven — of desire 

Our yearning — opes a portal ! 
And tho' Age — wearies by the way, 

And hearts — break — in the furrov), 
"We '11 sow — the golden grain — To-day, — 

The harvest — comes — To-morroio. 

Build up — heroic lives, and all — 

Be — like a sheathen saber, 
Ready to flash out — at God's call, 

O — chivalry — of Labor 1 
Triumph — and Toil — are twins : and aye — 

Joy — suns the cloud of Sorroto ; 
And — 't is the martyrdom — To-day 

Brings victory — To-morroio. 


The plow of time — breaks up our Eden-land, — 

And tramples down — its fruitful — flowery prime; 

Yet (through the dust of ages) — living shoots, — 

(Oh, the old — immortal seed,) start — in the furrows; 

And — (where love — looketh on — with glorious eye) 

These quicken' d germs — of everlastingness — 

Flower lusty, as of old — in Paradise ! 

And blessings — on the starry chance — of love ! 

And blessings — on the morn — of merry May ! 

Th't led my footsteps — to your beechen bower. 

Thus — hangs the picture — in my mind, — sweet wife ! 

Rich — as a Millais — in its tint — and tone. 

Nature— fash 'd by me — with her glorious shows ; 

The birds — were singing — on the blossoming boughs, 

With love's sweet mystery — stirring at their hearts, — 

Like first s/m/?<7-motions in the veins of flowers. 

A light of green — laughed up the shining hills, 

Which rounded — thro' the mellowing — gloating air. 

As their big hearts — heaved to some heart beyond, — 

Or strove — (with inner yearnings) — for the crown 

Of purple rondure — smiling there — in heaven! 

The flowers — were forth — -in all their conquering beauty, — 

And, — {winking — in their mother Earth's old face,) 

Said — all her children — should have happy hearts. 

Deeper — and deeper — in the icood's green gloom — 

I nestled — for the fever — of life's core : 

And thirstily — my heart — was drinking in 

Bich overfloivings — of some Cushat's love; 

When — flash ! the air — instinct with sple?idors grew, 

As if the world, — (while on her starry journey,) — 

Had suddenly— floated — in the clime of heaven. 


Upon a primrose bank — you sat, — a sight — 

To couch — the old — blind sorrow of my said ! 

A sweet — new blossom — of humanity, — 

Fresh fallen — from God's own home — to /lower— on earth. 

A golden burst — of sunbeams — glinted through 

The verdurous roofs — lush-leafy greenery, 

And— on you — dropped its crown — of living light. 

Your eyes, — (half shut, — while thro' their silken eaves 

Trembled the secret sweetness — hid at heart,) — 

Oped sudden — at full — and wide — wonderment! 

The sweetest eyes — that ever drank sun — for soul : 

As subtly tender — as a summer heaven, 

Brimm'd with the beauty — of a starry night I 

Your face, — so dewy fresh — and wond'rous fair, 

Kindled — and lightened — as the coming god — 

Were laboring — [upward) — thro' its birth of fire! 

The fleetest sioallow-dip — of a tender smile 

Ran round your mouth — in thrillings; while your cheek, 

Dimpled — (as from the arch love's finger-^rint,) 

Outflew his signal — fluttering — in a blush! 

And when your voice — broke up the air — for music — 

It smote — upon my startled heart — as smites 

The ?iew-horn. babe's— -first cry — a mother's ear ; — 

Yet strangely touched — some mystic memory, — 

And dimly seemed — some old familiar sound. 

That day, — (with an immortalizing kiss,) 

You crowned me — monarch — of your rich AeaW-world, 

Which heaved a boundless sea of love, — whose tides 

Ran radiant pulsings — thro' your rosy limbs. 

How the fore-lights — did float up — into your eyes, 

Like virgin stars — from violet depths of night ! 

Dear eyes! all craving — with love's ache — and hunger! 

And all the spirit — stood in your face — athirst! 

And — (from the rose-cup — of your murmuring mouth) 

Sweetness o'erflow'd — as from a fragrant fount. 

O hiss — of life ! that oped — our .Etfew-world ! 

The harvest — of an age's wealth of bliss 

In that first kiss — was reaped — in one rich minute! 

The wanton airs — came breathing — like the touch 

Of fragrant lips — th't feed, the blood — with fiame! 

The very earth — seemed bursting up, — and heaven 

Clung round, — and clasped us — as in glowing arms, 

To crush the wine — of all your ripen'd beauty, 

(Which were a fitting sacrament — for death,) — 

Into a cosily cup — of life — for me ! 



Among the beautiful pictures th't hang on memory's wall 

Is one — of a dim — old forest, — th't seemeth best — of all: 

Not — for its gnarled oaks — olden, — dark — with th' mistletoe, — 

Nor — for th' violets golden — that sprinkle th' vale — below; 

Not — for th' milk-white lilies — that lean from the fragrant hedge, — 

Coquetting — (all day) with th' sunbeams and stealing — their golden edge; — 

Nor — for th' vines on the upland — where th' bright — red berries rest, — 

Nor th' pinks, — nor th' pale — sweet cowslip — it seemeth to me th' best. 

I once — had a little brother, — with eyes — th't were dark — and deep; — 

In th' lap — of the old — dim forest — he lieth — (in peace) — asleep. 

Light — as the down — of th' thistle, — free — as the winds — th't blow, — 

We roved there th' beautiful summers, — (th' summers — of long ago;) 

But his feet — (on th' hills) — grew weary, — and — (one of th' autumn eves)— 

I made— (for my little brother) a bed — of th' yellow leaves. 

Sweetly — his pale arms — folded my neck — in a meek embrace, — 
As th' light — of immortal beauty — silently — covered his face: 
And — (when the arrows of sunset — lodged in the free-top's height) — 
He fell, — (in his saint-like beauty,) — asleep — by th' gates — of light! 
Therefore — of all the pictures — th't hang — on memory's wall — 
The one — of the dim — old forest — seemeth — th' best — of all. 


I saio him once — before, as he passed by th' door, — and again — 
Th' pavement-stones resound, as he loiters — o'er the ground, with his cane. 
They say — th't in his prime, — ere th' pruning-knife of time — cut him down, 
Not a better man — was found — by the crier — on his round thro' the town. 

But now — he walks th' streets, — and he looks at all he meets, sad — and wan, — 
And he shakes — his feeble head, — th't it seems — as if he said, — ("They are 

Th' mossy marbles — rest — on th' lips — th't he has pressed — in their bloom, 
And th' names — he loved — to hear — have been carved — for many a year on th' 


My grandmamma — has said — (poor old lady — she is dead-^-long ago) — 
That he had a Roman nose, — and his cheek — was like a rose — in th' snow. 
But now — his nose is thin, — and it rests — upon his chin — like a staff, — 
And a crook — is in his back — and a melancholy crack — in his laugh. 

I know — it is a sin — for me — t' sit — and grin at him — here; 

Yet the old — M?*ee-cornered hat, — and th' breeches, — and all that — are so queer! 
And if /—should live to be th' last leaf — upon th' tree — in th' spring, — 
Let them smile — as J do now — at the old forsaken bough — where I cling. 



Illustrious, — too, — that morning — stood the man — 

Exalted by the people — to throne 

Of government, — established — on the base of 

Justice, — liberty, — and equal right; 

"Who in his countenance sublime — expressed 

A nation's majesty, — and yet — was meek — 

And humble; and — in royal palace — gave 

Example — to the meanest — of the fear 

Of God, — and all integrity — of life — 

And manners; who, — august — yet lowly, — who — 

Severe — yet gracious, — in his very heart — 

Detesting all oppression, — all intent — 

Of private aggrandizement, and (the first — 

In every public duty,) — held the scales 

Of justice, — and, as the law — (which reigned in him) 

Commanded, — gave rewards, or with the edge 

Vindictive smote, — now — light, — now heavily, — 

According to the stature — of the crime. 

Conspicuous, — like an oak — (of healthiest bough,) 

Deep-rooted — in his country's love, — he stood, — 

And gave his hand to Virtue, — helping up 

The honest man — to honor — and renown, 

And (with the look — which goodness wears — in wrath) 

Withering — the very blood — of knavery, — 

And from his presence — driving far — ashamed. 






The First Book is introductory to Butler's New School Eeaders and to 
Butler's Goodrich Keaders. It is so arranged that it may be used for teaching 
by the common method, the phonetic method, or the word method. It is beauti- 
fully illustrated. 

The American Spelling-Book is arranged on the P rinci P le of presenting 
one new thing at a time, and repeating until that thing has become familiar. 
By judicious classification the use of marks and figures is almost entirely 
avoided, and the P u P il is led in a gradual and easy manner to the correct 
spelling and pronunciation. "While words are strictly classified according to 
sound in the body of the work, the author has grouped according to their genus 
many words that could not be so arranged. These lessons are appropriately 




In the New First School Header the lessons are so arranged that the 
child will find but little difficulty in reading them. The language employed 
in these lessons is simple and natural, such as every child understands. But, 
though the language is simple, it is accurate. There are no awkward inver- 
sions — no vulgarisms. 

The New Second School Keader contains a systematic course of exercises 
on the vowel-sounds, beginning with the short sounds and proceeding regularly 
through the long and the occasional sounds. By being distributed through the 
book these exercises present a less formidable appearance than if they were 
placed all together. In the spirit and beauty of its illustrations, of which there 
are about seventy, this book is unrivaled. 

The lessons in Butler's New Third School Eeader are such as to excite 
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and unmeaning rules. While the main object is to teach the child to read, the 
tone of this book is intended to be such as to cultivate his moral feelings, to 
instill into his mind a love of nature, and to train him to think and observe. 
This Keader contains a well-arranged course of exercises on the consonant- 

Butler's New Fourth School Eeader is in press. The Fifth and 
Sixth Beaders of the same series are in preparation. 

* ** These Readers are beautifully illustrated. They may safely be pronounced 
superior to all others in typography and general merit. They are at once the 
best and the cheapest. The greater portion of the matter is entirely original. 

JOHN P. MORTON & CO., Publishers, 
Correspondence solicited. LOUISVILLE, KY. 





72 pp. Price, 20 cents. 

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A simple and thorough grammar of the English language. It is the most popular treatise 
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The notable features of this Grammar are the mode of treating adjectives, pronouns, 
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Professor of Ancient Languages and Classical Literature in the College of Charleston, S. C. 

212 pages, 12mo. 

The result of forty years' experience in teaching the Latin language, this book is 
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In an Appendix 'are contained convenient Tables of Case and Tense-endings of all the 
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list of all Irregular Verbs, classed according to their termination. Gender Rules are given 
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BH5"" The Prosody " will be nicely bound, and may be bought separately at half the price 
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«...* The publishers offer these books for introduction and use in the schools throughout 
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Edited by Mrs. LAURA M. BRONSON. 

Cloth. 330 pages, 8vo. 

The veteran and well-known elocutionist, Professor C. P. Bronson, left at his death a large 
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The work treats of the principles of Elocution in accordance with Physiological and 
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For a full and systematic course of instruction and practice in the principles of Elocution, 
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Standard Works on English Composition. 




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